Saturday Afternoon in the Suburbs

© Cristena 2001

This story was originally written in the summer of 2001, actually preceding "Corporate Punishment". The difference is that while that piece was purely fantasy, this one has (some) basis in reality.

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My husband cheated on me.

I roll the words around in my head, savoring them like a bitter pill. My husband cheated on me. He had an affair. He slept with another woman. So many different ways to say it.

A single encounter might have slipped my attention. As it was, I suppose if I had been more observant I might have discovered it sooner. The blonde hairs on his sweaters I rationalized away. The late working hours I put down to the recent troubles in the stock market. The hang-up phone calls I thought were wrong numbers.

Then I found the motel receipt, and the handcuffs.

How could this have happened, I just can't figure it out. We've been married fourteen years. We have a mortgage, two kids, and a minivan. Men who drive minivans do not have affairs. Of course, the fact is that I mostly drive the minivan. He drives a Mazda with a stick shift. That probably says something right there.

My husband cheated on me. And I don't know what to do about that.

***

Saturday afternoon. The wall clock ticks away the minutes. I am alone in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea. I've just finished the laundry and watered the house plants. I have to decide what to make for dinner soon. The kids are at soccer practice.

My husband is upstairs in our bedroom, handcuffed to the bedstead.

It wasn't hard to do. After fourteen years of marriage I know all his habits. I knew he would go upstairs for a nap after working in the yard. After that it was a simple matter of waiting until he was asleep, then clamping the cuffs on him before he has a chance to wake up. I can hear him struggling on the bed now as he wakes, the handcuffs clattering against the brass rails. I let him stew awhile and burn off some excess energy before going back upstairs.

He watches me, confused, as I stand in the doorway. Before he has time to react I'm on top of the bed, straddled across his legs, immobilizing him. He squirms underneath me as I start unbuckling the belt of his jeans and pull them down his legs, taking his boxers with them, until finally I climb off to tug them past his feet.

"God damn it Cris, what are you playing at?" he growls.

I pull his belt out of the loops of the jeans and wrap the buckle end around my hand. An experimental snap of my wrist, and the belt flicks lightly but sharply across the side of his thigh.

"Hey! That hurt!" His body folds protectively and rolls to one side.

I draw back the belt and swat him across the ass. "Shut up, Joe, or the next one hits your dick."

The very mention of the belt slapping down across his family jewels causes him to wince, but he keeps quiet.

"I think you have some explaining to do." I hate the way my voice sounds, tentative, quavering.

He regards me with frank indignation. "You have got to be out of your mind."

I draw the belt back and swat him across his buttocks again. "I know about the affair, Joe. Don't bother denying anything, all right? I've seen the motel room receipts. If I wanted to, I could probably call up a desk clerk or two who'd remember you."

His only response to that is a guilty silence.

I take that as a cue to continue. "Where did you get these handcuffs, anyway? You're an investment banker, not a cop."

"God damn it, Cris, get me out of these!"

"Answer my questions, please. At least give me that." I swat him on the ass again.

"Ow!" his body flinches. "All right, all right! I'll tell you! She bought them for me. I don't know where she got them from."

"'She'? Does 'she' have a name?" I don't even know why I need to know this.

"Her name's Stephanie. She is - was - the secretary to the CEO. I think she quit, or got fired, or something. She doesn't work there anymore."

"How long did it go on?"

"Jesus, Cris, it's over. Isn't that good enough for you?"

Whack! Whack! "'How long?"

"GOD! Six months, all right? I told you, it's over!"

"Did you love her?''

"What the hell kind of question is - AAGH!" The slap of the belt across his thighs cuts him off mid-complaint. "All right, Jesus. Of course I didn't love her! The whole thing was a mistake! It didn't mean anything!"

So that's it then. For six months my husband was playing handcuff games with Stephanie the secretary and it meant nothing. He's told me everything and I'm still no closer to understanding.

"Why, Joe? Wasn't I enough?" I sit down on the bed beside him. He looks visibly relieved that I've put down the belt. "Tell me." I reach down in between his legs and pick up his limp cock in my hand, cradling it like a baby bird.

"I don't know, Cris," he sighs. "The kids were driving us crazy. You were running in a million different directions. I was spending more and more time at the office....." His voice trails off, probably in response to what I'm doing to his dick with my fingers. "Ohhhh god, that feels so good...."

I continue to stroke him lightly, feeling him grow harder in my hand. My fingertips glide softly up and down, my thumb rubbing small circles over the sweet spot just below the head. His skin feels like velvet stretched over marble. He rolls over onto his back, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

Just as I feel his body start moving up and down to meet my fingers, I pull my hand away. "I'm not sure I can deal with this," I tell him, getting up from the bed.

I've caught him by surprise. His face registers confusion. "What the - "

"I'll be right back." I turn and run down the stairs.

By the time I reach the kitchen I'm breathing hard. I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I need to slow down. Opening the fridge, I pour a glass of water and sit down at the table. From upstairs I can hear Joe's voice calling, "Cris? Cris?" I take my time drinking the water, idly flipping through the latest Macy's sale catalog. It reminds me, the kids will need school clothes soon.

I finish my water, rinse my glass. I can hear Joe's struggles, the rattling of the handcuffs. It's not a large house, and far from soundproof. We'll probably have to move in a few years when the kids get bigger.

I return upstairs to find Joe glaring at me from the bed. His erection has mostly wilted, but not all the way. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Believe it or not, I'm not." I can tell he doesn't believe me. I sit down on the bed and reach for him again. He flinches when I touch his dick, but it doesn't take nearly as long before he's hard in my hand again. This time I wrap my entire hand around his fully engorged member and start a rhythmic pumping. In spite of himself he's become aroused again. After fourteen years of marriage, I can read his body as if it were my own. I know how and where to touch him.

"So basically you had an affair with somebody because I wasn't around?" I press on, gently squeezing his rock-hard shaft.

"God, no, I didn't mean it that way. Oh yes... Don't stop that. It's just like - well, things were so stressful at home - it was almost like I was going to work to relax - ohhhhh..."

I look up at the clock. Shit. If I don't start dinner soon the kids will go hungry. I take my hand off of Joe's dick and he makes a sort of whimpering noise. A drop of precum glistens on the tip of his cock like a jewel.

"What the hell - "

"I have to cook dinner. The kids will be home soon."

"Cris, you bitch," he croaks, rolling back over onto his side. He curls his body into a fetal position and squirms back and forth, making pathetic attempts to rub himself against the bedsheets. I make sure to turn for the stairs before I start feeling sorry for him.

Back in the kitchen I chop my way through onions, mushrooms, green peppers. It helps to work my energy off, hacking at these defenseless vegetables. I try not to think of Joe's dick while I'm wielding the knife. Next, to peel and cut up the tomatoes, scooping out the seeds to dispose of later. The juice runs through my fingers like blood.

I add a small can of tomato paste and throw it all into a saucepan. Shit. The ratios are all wrong.

I run back up to the bedroom. Joe is still lying the way I left him. His face is red and his breathing is strained. I reach around and grab his jeans. "Get up," I tell him. "We have to go to the supermarket."

His eyes widen in incredulity. "What?" Subtext: Are you nuts?

"We're out of tomatoes. The spaghetti sauce is already half made so it's too late to start anything else. If we run out now I can have everything done before the kids get home."

"So pick them up yourself. Why do you need me?"

"I can't go by myself. The minivan's in the shop, remember? And I can't drive your car because I don't know how to drive a stick. So you'll have to drive."

I start pulling the jeans up over his feet. No time for underwear. This won't be easy. For a second I consider putting on a pair of sweat pants instead, but in his present engorged state he'd probably attract too much unwanted attention. He winces as I pull the jeans up higher, and I feel a little bad when the denim rubs up against his sore stricken ass. His balls are swollen larger than I've ever seen them, and I have trouble getting the zipper all the way up. I grab a long sleeved sweatshirt - one of his, in fact - and pull it on over my own head. Then I unsnap the handcuffs from one of his wrists and clamp it onto my own. When the sleeve of the sweatshirt's all the way down it covers up the handcuff.

He winces as I pull him up, the unforgiving fabric of his jeans chafing against his tender buttocks and bursting testicles with every movement. His t-shirt, thankfully, hangs down loosely enough to cover most of his indecency. I coax his feet into moccasins and then my own into sandals. He can barely walk, stumbling against me as I lead him down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the garage. I open the driver's side door and slide in, over the stick shift, pulling him in after me. It's not easy for him to drive with his right wrist attached to my left, shifting uncomfortably in the driver's seat with every bump in the road, but the supermarket's not far and there isn't much traffic on the road. It's one of the reasons why we picked this neighborhood to live.

The other customers in the supermarket pay us no attention, absorbed in their own shopping. Anyone looking at us would think that we were just a happy couple holding hands, although perhaps if they really look closely they might notice that Joe's gait is a bit strange. I take my time in the produce section, lingering over the tomatoes to look for the best ones. I notice that breakfast cereal is on sale, the brand the kids like, so I pick up a box. I wish I had more time to do more shopping, but the kids will be home soon and I've forgotten my coupons. Joe trails after me with a pained look on his face, not saying a word.

"How are you folks doing tonight?" the cashier, an impossibly perky high school girl asks us when we approach the checkout counter. I give her a big grin and hold my left hand up, revealing the handcuff. She blushes and looks away.

Home again, and it's immediately back upstairs with Joe. I want to reattach his hands to the bed and undress him again before I put the groceries away. His dick is still semi-erect and bursts out of his jeans as soon as I open the zipper and pull his jeans back down his legs. I cup my hand around it and it springs to attention almost immediately. His lips open with an incoherent sound that is equal parts protest and arousal.

His hips start moving again to meet my hand as I stroke him. We find a rhythm again, my hand massaging the fine skin over his straining cock where it's been chafed against the rough denim of his jeans. Leaning down close to him, I blow softly across the tiny opening at the tip of his swollen purple bulb. I can feel the blood in his veins, pulsating under my fingers. His body begins to arch off the bed, bracing itself for orgasm.

"Oh, Crissss,...." he murmurs, drawing my name out in a sigh. I sit back up and take my hand away again, breaking the spell once more. His eyes fly open, locking on mine. He's beyond resistance now, beyond indignation. He can only look at me in defeat, not knowing what I'm going to do next. I only wish I knew myself.

He rolls on his side again, his body curling back in almost protectively around his aching dick. "What do you want from me anyway?" he asks in a strangled voice. "Do you want me to beg?" He sounds as if he's fighting back tears.

I slump down in exhaustion. "I don't know," I admit. "Love, honor, cherish, all that stuff we promised each other when we first got married. Whatever happened to all that?"

"I never stopped loving you," he whispers, his face buried in the pillow. "Even if you don't believe a single word I've said tonight, at least believe that."

A fat tear wells up in my eye and rolls down my cheek. I swipe it away with the palm of my hand.

"Please," he continues, "can't we start again?"

I swallow hard, and reach into my pocket for the key to the handcuffs.

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Author's afterword: Despite the outcome of this particular episode, Cristena and her husband officially separated on January 1, 2002.