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?"
