Slippery Slopes

This is an entry to the 750 word project for 2025. Below this line is a story comprised of exactly 750 words.

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No one can hurt me like he can.

I ask to spend time together and he fucks off to play with the boys. Better use of his time, I guess.

I make him dinner and dress up for a night together and he comes home late, grabs his plate from the nicely set table and goes from job to hobby without so much as a thank you to me. Not a kiss, not even a fucking handshake.

My own plate gets pushed aside and I bite the inside of my cheek to stave off the tears that want to flow free. It would be one thing if it was an occasional thing, but it has been the routine for years.

I'm reminded of the times he's told me about his exes and how he was present for them. How he made the effort to meet their needs. I question why I'm not worthy of that same care. Were they prettier? Younger? Simply not me?

Leaving the table is hard. I wanted a life with him. I thought he wanted the same with me. Of course, if I don't make him dinner, he notices and comments.

I should eat, but I've lost my appetite. Wine will do.

I set my plate in the sink. He'll notice I didn't clean it, but not that I didn't eat. The complaints about cleanliness and me not helping will start when he comes to bed, but I'll be a bottle deep at that point, barely even conscious. Maybe then he'll want me.

It's not that I don't care. I do. We've talked about it. I've begged. We've gone to counseling. Each time he says I ask too much of him. An hour of his time just with me is too much. A kiss is too much. Even saying he loves me is too much.

I'm nothing but a maid to him.

My bath is a refuge from isolation; I fill the tub and bubbles create a frothy blanket atop warmth. The wine bottle sits beside the tub, a glass--much fuller than is customary--in my hand as I step in.

My hair is piled on top of my head and I lean back against the tub. I hate that it feels nice.

I click a button. Music softly overtakes the silence, and a red light blinks.

I barely glance toward the camera. I'm aware of how many men are watching and how many get excited by the glint of light on my engagement ring and wedding band as I sip my wine. Part of the appeal is that I'm married. I'm forbidden goods because I belong to another man.

They get off on calling me a whore. And I relax in the tub. I set my wine glass down and pull up my phone. The chat is full, as it always is. Their vitriol is mixed with praise of how beautiful I look, and worry because I seem sad.

They can't see my body, but they don't need to. They know I'm naked beneath the bubbles. They can see that I'm watching the chat and the insults stop as directions begin to flow in.

"Grope your tit."

"Fuck your pussy."

I put the phone down so they can go back to discussing forcing their cocks down my throat, or in my ass and pussy. Some don't care if I want it or not. Some prefer if I don't. I should care about that, but I don't. Would my husband care?

I grab the big silicone dildo from the towel beside the tub and run it over my lips. They don't get to touch me. They only get to watch me and jerk their sad little pricks off while fantasizing about what they'll never have.

My lips part and I give a good show of my skills with a cock. My husband's disinterest in me increases their spank bank material as it increases our bank account.

I slide the dildo in, whimpering at its girth as I look into the lens, tears in my eyes. I don't like this.

I know they imagine themselves between my thighs, water sloshing over the side of the tub with their movement as they take me. Maybe one day, if I get lonely enough, I'll take one of them up on their offers.

Whether he loves me or not doesn't much matter. I just wish he'd tell me what I did wrong. I can't fix it if he won't tell me.