It's Only Fair

Continuing the tale. I am pretty sure I took care of the "too damn short" problem, so from this point on, all submissions should be that length or longer (as merited).

A word about descriptions - I like them. That's about it. I call it "front loading": if I set the stage as complete as possible, adding what descriptions I can it frees me up from ever having to refer to them later. Descriptions also tell more about a story and the characters than just saying" what they are doing. Old rule - show, don't tell. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea - but as had been noted on here and from other writers - this is free and most writers write for their own pleasure.

I noticed that at the end of the first day that my first chapter had about 15,000 views. I am trying to get ahead of myself so I am writing this chapter 3 now, and am assuming that Chapter 2 will be better received. If not, meh.

Also, taking the advice of a few of the comments and feedback I had received, I am going to try to post a chapter every 2-3 days barring any crazy issue. And as I had indicated, each chapter is going to be longer. I aimed for 5,000 for chapter 2 and hit 6,500. I aimed for 7,500 for this chapter, and hit 8,800.

Like a great writer once said: Write what you know. So that's what this is, me writing what I know.

Again, no ninja assassins or black vans in the middle of the night or meek tiny dicked husbands or "willing" cuckold (thanks for whoever caught that!) situations. This is as close to reality as I could get it and still tell the story.

Enjoy! -V

*****

I paced across the concrete floor of the basement for a half hour, the metal reality of the strange handcuffs passing from one hand to the other. I wasn't really looking at the walls or the floor, I didn't pay attention to the faint tracery of webbing hanging from the drop ceiling. At no time was I conscious about what was in my field of vision.

What I did acknowledge was the cuffs in my hands. Do you know that after a half hour of constant touch you intimately know something? I could count the number of ridges on the back of the cuff spine. My fingertips knew the exact spacing between the curving ribs. I could tell which link was 'clinking' when I moved the cuffs from left hand to right and vice versa.

It was only when the numbness of my bare soles could no longer tolerate the cold of the concrete floor that I snapped out of my reverie and returned to the now. I gave the offending restraints a final look, bunched them in my hand, and strode towards the stairs. Clicking the lights off I went into the kitchen next and gently placed the cuffs in the center of the oaken tabletop. I stepped back, looking at them with deep eyes, trying to get them to give up their secrets.

"What the fuck is going on here, Elle?"

I was no longer buying her story about the Fed Ex mailers and cutting her wrists. The cuffs could certainly cause the same wounds on her body, of that I was sure. But what was she doing? Some sort of weird bondage thing? I had heard of them before, these mental women that only grace the pages of Penthouse Forum and the darkly psychotic sections of various internet porn - they liked to get trussed up and made to feel helpless. Aggrandizing the mystique of rape without the dehumanizing aspect of actually being raped. Fucked up.

Was that what my wife was into now? And where the hell did this fetish come from? I shook my head, no closer to answers now than earlier. Was this the sort of shit that was in her head? How do I deal with it? And why had I not heard anything about this until now?

Exhaustion crawled over my scalp, tingling across my skin in a staccato wave. I yawned deeply, struggling to stay awake a few moments longer. I picked up the handcuffs and carefully placed them in the phonebook drawer, shoving them under the town's yellow pages. Wearily I made my way to my bedroom and crawled into bed next to Elle.

I was sad to note that as my eyes closed, I did not reach for her this time.

Sometime later I awoke to the sound of the shower running, Elle missing from the bed, and Amber crying in her room. I sat upright and blearily looked about. 7:48. Great, later than usual. If only I had good continuous sleep I would probably be happier about it. Getting a pair of shorts I pulled them up and wove my way out of the bedroom to get my daughter.

The stink of wet soiled diaper greeted me at the same time her wails did. She was standing in her crib, eyes screwed up in misery, reaching over the bars for me. My heart broke as I bent over her and lifted her up. "Aww, my baby," I sang, holding her gently as I rocked her in small circles on the way to the changing table. "It's ok, I'm here." She gave another terrifying wail and then calmed down, her tears still falling but her cries fading away.

I stripped off her clothes and made short work of her dirty diaper. Almost a half dozen wet wipes later she was clean enough to be dressed once more and her cries had disappeared entirely. I pulled a pair of socks on her feet and lifted her up once more. "Ok, Sunshine," I said with a smile, "Let's eat. Daddy's got a big day ahead of him."

We went into the kitchen where a frying pan, a carton of eggs, and a loaf of bread hit the counter as I went through the motions of getting breakfast ready. I pulled out Amber's cereal and after preparing it, sat her in her highchair with her spoon and told her to eat. She giggled and played, eating with gusto as she worked her way through her meal.

Just as the eggs were finishing, I heard the shower stop and the curtain rustling. Elle came in wearing a bathrobe and drying her hair with the same towel I had gone down into the basement to get last night. "Smells great, babes," she leaned up and gave me a peck on the cheek. "I needed that shower." She turned to the fridge and rummaged around, eventually pulling out a half gallon of milk and pouring herself a glass.

She sat down, taking a deep drink, before turning to Amber and saying in a sing-song voice, "And who made the big stinky this morning? You did! You made the big stinky, didn't you?"

I doled the eggs out on two plates, putting them on the table and turned back to the toaster. "You smelled that?" I casually asked.

I could hear the grin in Elle's voice as she answered, "You bet! It was so smelly, it was almost a solid!" Amber giggled.

"Do I want to do this?" I thought. "Do I want to point it out to her and possible wreck my damned weekend? Or do I do what I've had to do for so many months now and just stomach it down in the interests of what's best for the family?" I took the toast out and dropped a piece on her plate and mine, taking in her glassy eyed look, Amber's ever ready smile, and my own pounding headache.

"It's time," I said to myself, and with that I felt both a weight lift from my shoulders and pain center itself in my chest.

"So," I said aloud, "Why didn't you change her?"

Elle look at me quizzically, buttering her toast. "What do you mean?"

"Amber. She was obviously dirty. Why didn't you change her?"

"You normally do in the morning."

"Ah," I nodded as if in agreement. "That's true. While I'm getting ready for work, I do that." I took a swallow of milk, looking at her over the rim of the glass. "So if I normally change her in the morning, when do you normally change her? The evening?"

Elle's lips tightened. "No, Sometimes I'm working then."

"Ah," I repeated. I was going to be calm, she was going to rant and rave and I was going to be calm, no matter what. "So if I am changing her in the morning and the evening, then when do you 'normally' change her, Elle?"

"What the fuck, Rick? I change her when she needs to be changed and I'm around to do it. Why all the questions?" Her voice dropped half an octave, "Are you trying to start a fight?"

"No, honey. Not at all. Just trying to put this morning in perspective." I ticked off one finger, "I change her in the mornings since I am up first for work. Today I did not have work and you were up." I held up another finger, "I also change her in the evenings, as I did last night, as usual, because you are often working - or at least on the computer. However this is not the night time, it's the morning." I then touched a third finger, "And as you indicated you change her when she needs to be changed, a fact that you certainly recognized this morning by the smell, but again, you did not and I changed her." I held up the three fingers, wiggling them slightly. "That's three points - and we're just talking about our daughter and her crap filled diaper."

"I don't need to sit here and take this shit from you, asshole," she snarled, her eyes blazing. Her finger lanced out at me. "Go fuck yourself!"

"Elle, calm the hell down," I kept my voice even tempered as I flicked my gaze at Amber; hoping she'd get the hint.

Sadly, she was only building up steam. "You limp dicked, cock-sucker. You can shove your points and your perspective down your throat and choke on it, you dick! You fucking dick!"

"Not today, Rick, not going to put with this today," I reassured myself silently as I climbed to my feet, her constant haranguing growing more caustic. I walked to the phone book drawer, pulled it open sharply until the rollers slammed into the stopper, and whipped out the handcuffs.

I held them aloft, presenting them to her like a beacon. Her tirade ended in mid-expletive and she just looked at me with an unfathomable expression. "What the hell are these, and what the hell were they doing in the basement?!" I asked, my own tone growing deeper as I struggled to keep my anger in check. I tossed them across the room towards her and she gasped, stepping back as if I threw her a live cobra.

The cuffs hit the floor with a rattling metallic clank, sliding to a stop at the base of the cabinet. She looked down at them and then and me, eyes wide, pupils dilated, lips pulled back against her teeth. The tableau remained that way for a slow count of three and then I saw a shadow descend over the back of her eyes as whatever darkness was inside of her roared up like a phoenix.

"You," she drew the word out like a sibilant hiss, literally snarling as she addressed me. "You, fucking, useless, pathetic, shitty excuse of a man!"

"Elle," I warned her, noting that Amber was beginning to grow upset at the back and forth her parents were having.

"I should fucking stab you in your sleep, you piece of shit."

My daughter began to cry, her tiny voice wailing louder and louder. I circled the table, hoping to close the distance to the shrieking apparition that my wife had become, but she backed away and continued her foul invectives. "Elle, enough. I'm serious."

"No, I'm serious," she crowed, whirling away. "Serious about how much I hate you. I fucking hate you!" She turned back around, hand curled like a talon, "I FUCKING HATE YOU!!" She spat these words in my face as I made to grab her flailing wrist.

Amber's voice was now yelling in sorrow as she blubbered in her highchair. The plaintive wails of "Daddy! Daddy!" yanked at my heart as I sought to somehow get Elle away from the kitchen (marginally successful now) and calmed down a bit (failing miserably).

I managed to land a weak grip on her waving hand but she pulled back, roaring at me a unending litany of curses punctuated with the repeated chanting of "I hate you!" every other sentence. We found ourselves just outside the office at this point. "Elle!" I yelled at her, "Enough! Enough! Don't do this! I mean it!"

"Fuck you!" was her answering cry as she grabbed my computer keyboard and flung it with all her might in my direction like a Frisbee. I ducked just in time to feel it pass over my head and shatter against the hallway wall in a hundred pieces.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you!?" I cried, my own fury beginning to take hold. Don't hit her, Rick. Don't hit her. You hit her, you go to jail. Don't hit her. Don't hit her, you go to jail, Rick. I looked down at the shattered keys on the hardwood floor, seeing the foot long gouge in the sheetrock just at my head level.

As I turned back to her though she wasn't done. She had grabbed the wire of my mouse next and tore it from my system, scything it over her head like an Olympian doing the hammer throw. The weighted end whipped around, gaining tremendous velocity before making contact with the left side of my face.

I felt my glasses burst as the mouse hit, sharpened bits of plastic exploded around me, pain lancing across my left eye. I managed to screw my lids shut just in time. Somewhere in the distance I heard the metallic sound of my glasses hitting the floor. I heard my wife at this point completely lost in her rage. And I heard my daughter crying piteously alone in the kitchen.

I blinked slowly, the vision in my left eye blurry but still working. Elle had her hand on the monitor next, most likely going to hurl that at me. I strode forward, wrapping both of my hands on her upper arms and squeezed. Don't hit her, Rick. Don't hit her. She let go of my screen in shock, allowing me to whirl her around and push her against the back wall of the office, my anger held in check by the thinnest of threads, her feet dangling uselessly over the floor. Oh God, Rick. Don't hit her you poor bastard. Don't. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I can't live like this anymore, Elle! I can't!"

"Then leave, you cock sucker!"

"What's wrong with you!" I bent lower, yelling into her face now. I was aware that I had 10 inches on her and 80 lbs as well. I was a man, she was a woman. If I hit her, and God forgive me, I wanted to, but if I hit her, I would go to jail. "Just get out. Get out and let me clean this place up and get Amber calmed down. Go for a ride and please fucking relax!"

The dark tide that was in the back of her eyes faded as I held her firmly against the wall. I noted with sadness that she had kicked holes in the sheetrock here as well with the back of her heels. "More shit I'll have to fix," I thought sadly.

She grew pensive, staring at me like I was a stranger. I eased my grip on her arms and let go. Amber was crying on and on inside, her voice the only noise in the house anymore. "I'm going to get dressed and go out," Elle announced, her tone flat and without emotion. She looked at the wreckage in the office and the hallway, muttering, "Sorry," as she walked into the bedroom.

I looked about, finding my glasses on the floor and picked them up. The left lens was missing and the frame was buckled there. "Fucking terrific," I sighed, going to my desk drawer and taking out my older spare. I put them on and looked around, seeing that my left eye was still blurry. "Fucking great," I repeated as I stepped over the busted garbage in the hall and entered the kitchen.

Amber was a mess of tears, snot, and red blotchy cheeks. She was gasping as she cried, unable to get past her own facial fluids, her hands towards me beseechingly. I snatched a handful of napkins from the counter and pulled her out of her high chair, sitting her on my lap as I wiped her face dry. "Oh, my baby. My Sunshine. It's ok, Amber. It's ok. Shhh. Shhh." I held her close, rocking her calm as unbidden tears welled in my eyes.

I heard Elle at the front door and I looked up, seeing her gaze catch mine. She appeared only slightly chagrined at this morning's antics, instead just staring at me. "I'll be back in an hour," she uttered without emotion, not even offering an apology, and then left, pulling the door closed silently behind her.

I spent 20 minutes just sitting in the kitchen, rocking my daughter back and forth, watching her stop crying and eventually nap. I placed her back in her crib and then looked at the wreckage that was my system. Keyboard and mouse were shot, but the monitor was ok once I snapped the base back into place. I went into the closet and pulled out a spare keyboard and mouse, plugging them in and starting the system up. There was only a brief pause as it found the new hardware and then it seemed to be working fine.

I grabbed the trash can and loaded the busted bits from the hall and the office floor inside, fingering the holes in the sheetrock. The hall I could patch, but the office wall was a wreck. I wandered into the kitchen and found a utility blade in the junk drawer. Going back into the office I proceeded to cut out a square of damaged rock, lining the edges up on the closest available studs. I cleaned up the floor here and then went into the bathroom to clean my hands.

That's when I looked in the mirror.

The brow above my left eye was a mass of abrasions, the skin seriously marked and scabby looking. I could see the skin was already discolored and knew I would be sporting a black eye. "Bitch." I touched it gingerly; it felt sore. "Fucking bitch."

There was no way I was going to live like this anymore. I didn't know what to do to help her, but trying to be the only person in the marriage hoping to make it work was not an option. And now this? Where was this shit coming from?

I heard the front door open and I peered out of the bathroom, looking down the hall to see Elle coming back in. She had an orange colored coffee cup in one hand and a big gulp cup from 7-11 in the other. Seeing me she gave a thin smile and motioned the soda towards me. "Diet coke."

"Thanks," I replied. I glanced once more into the mirror, frowning at the damage, and strode out to face her.

She was sitting in the kitchen, sipping her coffee, a pile of purloined brown sugar packets piled next to her tapping fingers. I picked up the big gulp, took a deep sip, and sat down. I leaned back in the chair, staring at her. She was unable to meet my gaze for very long, constantly looking away when she saw my blackening eye. Finally she cleared her throat and said, "I don't want to fight."

"Me neither."

"Good." I waited, saying nothing. She eventually continued with, "I don't hate you."

I snorted. "Could have fooled me."

Her nose wrinkled. "No, it's true. I don't hate you."

"Then what the hell is going on? Do we need to go and talk to someone?"

She shook her head, lips twisting in mockery. "No, we don't need to talk to anyone."

"Elle, I can't live like this."

"It'll get better, Rick."

"When?"

She shrugged. "Soon."

"And, the handcuffs?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "They're mine."

"Shit, Elle. What the hell for? What are you doing with them?"

"None of your fucking business," she snapped, her voice getting clipped at the end.

I held up my hand, "Easy. Relax. We're talking, ok?"

"No, Rick," she went on, "it's not ok." She shook a finger at me, "I'm not hurting anyone. I am here all fucking day, ok? Just me, and my head, all fucking day. Sometimes I have thoughts and desires and wants that are NOT associated with you, ok?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She slapped her palm on the tabletop. "See, this is what I was talking about. The cuffs are mine. Anything I do here when you and Amber are out is none of your fucking concern, ok? I'm not hurting anyone, I'm a grown fucking woman, and I don't need your fucking permission for anything?"

I was wrestling with what she was saying, twirling the straw of my soda in the plastic cover back and forth. "What do you mean? You want to try out handcuffs? OK, I'll try them with you. Just let me in, Elle."

"Ha!" she laughed out loud, scorn naked in her voice. "You're a boy scout, Rick. You don't have it in you to help me work through this, so don't even try."

"Holy crap, Elle," I gasped, my mind leaping to a disturbing conclusion. "You better not be fucking around on me. Fourteen years, nine married, and we have a house and a kid together." My finger was shaking in her direction. "Are you? Are you into some shit with someone else?"