Two Feet Below
This one's a little dark, and it could easily have fit three other LIT categories. I put it in Loving Wives because I felt it worked here best.
As most of my followers can probably tell, I like to write the 'Kobayashi Maru,' or no-win scenarios in this category. I think I've done that in all but two, and one of those, "Reader's Block" was mostly satire in the fashion of a Mickey Spillane barroom therapist/ with some BTB side revenge and words of wisdom for the cheated husband, so he might put his life back together. Lots of readers didn't quite get what I was going for on that one, so if I ever attempt it again, I'll need to be more concise - or funny!
Warning: Descriptive, nonconsensual sex occurs between characters of legal age. Unintended consequences occur as a result, but work themselves out as the story unfolds.
Relax; it's only a story, people.
[Copyright 2023. All rights reserved]
I didn't and still don't have a very good point of reference with which to micro-analyze my relationship with my wife, Rebecca Stevens, nee Carter. I knew I loved her very much. I knew that during our two-year courtship, while we were in college, I felt that she loved me equally. I knew that when we married after we both graduated, she seemed just as happy with her life as I. Our intimacy was, well, off the chart those years in college and continued after we wed. We also spoke intimately, almost every night, about our plans for the future, which included the proverbial white picket fence and at least two children. She'd tell me - I'm Marshall Stevens, by the way - that she loved me more every day, and I believed her. Those feelings carried on through our first five years of marriage.
Our financial situation was meager. Becca - my pet name for her - worked at an animal rescue shelter. She'd tell me constantly, she was so happy in her job, doing what she loved, that it put her in a better place to 'love the shit' out of me when she got home. I took full advantage of that love and did everything I could to give as good as I got.
My degree was in public health, so as you can imagine, I became a public health inspector for the county where we lived. Plenty of people changed their disposition when I'd announce myself and show my credentials, but it came with the territory, and I learned to make a little game of winning them over while writing them up for any infractions I discovered.
If I had to find something about Becca to put in the minus column, after seven years of being together, it was her flightiness. She was flighty and fanciful. Not even one suspicious bone in her body. Becca always looked for the good in people and was trusting to a fault, which worried me at times.
None of those were bad qualities on their own. Taken all together though, I could see the potential for a disaster if she ever ran across a deviant mind and soul. I realized that it could be my inherent mistrust of people that caused my concern for my wife. After all, most of the businesses I inspected, and that was three or four per day, had something to hide. They knew it, and they tried to exploit me or the situation to their benefit, almost always.
One of the few minor issues Becca and I had discussed several times was when we would start a family.
She wanted us to save for a house first, and reviewing our financial situation, that timeline always put us at about twenty-eight. I didn't like that idea, mostly because I wanted to be young while our kids were growing up. Becca would soothe me, reminding me that twenty-eight was young.
So our lives settled into a routine. I had multiple promotion opportunities as long as I did my job well. Becca received regular raises because the shelter was also run by the county. Our shared interests included hiking, kayaking, and horror movies. Most times, we had full weekends.
Becca had grown up with her father. She was an only child. Her mom had met a man at work when she was nine, and her mother took off with the guy, never to be seen again. I think that was one reason that Becca cared so much for abandoned animals. My Mother and Father, along with my Sister, took to Becca right away, and she to them. She liked spending time with my family, and we usually did so once per month.
My Becca was by appearance, the typical girl next door - straight strawberry blonde hair, with a soft complexion and rosy cheeks. There were no hard lines, or disproportionate features, like nose or ears. She had wonderful, flawless skin and was one of those women who looked better without makeup. Becca's deep blue eyes and full lips were two of the first things that drew me to her. The rest of her was just perfect for me. She was short - only coming in around five-foot-one, and weighing one hundred-five pounds. She was definitely petite, with B-cup, handful-sized breasts, and a nicely sculpted ass. Becca also had these tiny Kristen Bell hands and wore a size six shoe.
I'd never been into hands, fingers, feet, or toes. She had so much else going for her in the looks department, that I wouldn't have paid attention if I was. Her shoe of choice was a pair of her many flip-flops. The first year after we were married, the county, through some OSHA safety requirements, made it mandatory that all employees of the shelter had to wear closed-toed shoes. That made her really mad. It made me a bit happy, although I'd not admit it to her. I'd seen many men on the beach boardwalk, or when we went kayaking stop to stare at her feet. Sometimes, she'd ask for a foot massage while we watched TV or some horror flick. I guess they were as cute and petite as the rest of her. Her tiny toes were straight and in proportion with the rest of her, anyway.
Three months after our fifth anniversary, I was nearly twenty-seven and Becca was twenty-six. Trouble came to our door in the form of an unlikely suspect.
Theodore Rasmussen moved into our neighborhood, across the street, and one house over. He was an elderly gentleman, tall, and appeared to be in really good shape for his age. At about the same time, Becca sat with me after dinner one night and announced that she wanted to start working on a family. When I reminded her that we would be changing our plans, she told me "Of course, we are, silly. That's why we're talking about it."
During the first month after Theodore moved in, I caught him looking at Becca in ways I didn't like at all. In many ways, I couldn't legitimately object. After all, many men checked out my wife in public, some even made spectacles of themselves while doing so. Even the ones who were with a woman did the not-so-subtle thing.
Regarding Theodore, there was a look on his face. He looked at my wife as though she was prey. That happened when we'd gone out to get in the car, or returned, while he was in his front yard doing some work. I began to realize, or at least suspect, that he must be watching or anticipating when we left or returned just so he could be out front. Whenever Becca and I were working on our yard, he wouldn't be there, and then suddenly he was, pretending to do his own yard work or washing his car.
I brought it up to Becca a few times but she dismissed my concerns. "He's a harmless old man." She'd say. "Maybe he is checking me out, but so do lots of men."
That was new. I guess I should have realized that if I saw men looking, she did too. We'd never really had a conversation about it in all these years. I told her that the way he looked at her was what bothered me. It was more than just 'oh, she's hot.'
"Well, let him look," she replied. "It's a little flattering and I obviously have zero interest in him that way. Just so you know, I have no interest in any man, of any age, other than my wonderful husband. You're all I'll ever need."
I let it go. I had no intention of starting a fight, but I wanted her to know my feelings, and to perhaps be careful around him.
But over the next month, I'd come home for lunch or from work and find the two of them chatting with one another from across the road. The second time, I brought it up at dinner.
"So, you two seem friendly," I prodded. "When did you two start talking?"
Becca saw through my feeble attempt. "I know you don't care for him, for some reason," she said quickly. "But he's just a lonely old man." I noticed she no longer said 'harmless.'
"He's quite interesting, Marsh," she continued. "Theo just turned seventy. He's lonely, even though his wife passed almost ten years ago. It makes him happy to have someone to converse with, and I like to hear about his many travels and escapades."
So he was Theo, now. In my mind, I was going over boundaries that seemed reasonable, and that I was about to lay down when she shocked me.
"He's lived an incredible life, honey," she added. "He worked on a cruise ship for some time, and you should see his etchings."
What the actual fuck! I thought.
"What do you mean - his etchings?" I said, trying to maintain control over my emotions. "What the fuck. Are you telling me you went into his house?"
Becca's expression changed to shock in milliseconds. I rarely used the 'F' word in front of her, and never directed to her.
