I sit.
I enjoy looking at myself in the mirror while I do it. Part of it is that I'm just... content with my body. A gentle curve begins to show beneath my dress as I cradle my growing belly. Once, I tried to hone my body to be strong. Now, I just want to make sure it's appealing to Howard... and nurturing to the baby I'll bear him.
Not every woman is so lucky as to feel at peace with the reflection in the mirror, but I do. My rise has been stopped, and I'm better off for it.
The road has been bumpy, but it's finally come full circle: I am the meek, tamed girl I swore to myself I would never become. And judging by her tone on the phone, my mother couldn't be happier to hear it: her prodigal daughter is back.
Is there a more universal human experience than having to listen to a gloating parent lovingly giving you the I told you so?
Well... I suppose my situation is a little different from the norm.
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that, honey!" my mother's voice comes through the earpiece. The affection in her voice is like to melt my heart. I never had that approval, growing up as a headstrong feminist girl with big silly dreams. At least now I know it was my own fault.
"Thanks, Mum," I say. "I feel like I'm... glowing. Everything is so much simpler now. In its place. I don't know if that makes sense."
"Of course it does!" She says. "You just had to see it for yourself before you believed it. And tell me, how is the little bun in the oven doing? Not giving you too much trouble, I hope?"
"No, not at all, Mom. I feel great!"
I can almost hear her smile over the phone. "That's wonderful, sweetie. You know, pregnancy suits you. It really does sound like you have that... glow."
At her words, I look down at my belly. I am going to be a mother. I'm going to be Howards', for all my days. I still can scarcely believe it, sometimes.
As if on cue, I feel Howard's presence behind my chair, his strong hands landing on my shoulders to knead them gently. Gently, but firmly. His touch is possessive, as if my body belongs to him now. Which, of course, it does.
It's a little disorienting how natural it all feels already -- how quickly I've adjusted to the end of my independence...
"I'm so happy for you, Vivian," my mother gushes. "To think, after all your youthful rebellion, you've finally seen the light and embraced your true purpose as a Montgomery woman. I always knew this feminist nonsense was just a phase, but it fills my heart with such joy to finally see it happen!"
I suppose she's entitled to a little gloating. She had to watch me prance around, pretending to be a corporate girlboss in the making, for years. I can tolerate one smug phone call.
"You were right, Mom," I admit softly. "I see that now. I'm back where I belong, and I have a purpose now. I couldn't be happier."
As I speak, Howard's hands drift lower, cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasp softly, but make no move to stop him. This is his right, as my man. My body is his to grope and fondle as he pleases.
"You're lucky to have him, Vivian."
"I am," I agree, my breath hitching as Howard pinches my nipples, sending jolts of sensation through me. Howard chuckles behind me. I wonder what he's enjoying more - my submissive words? My pliant flesh? Or is it just about flustering me during an innocent phone call?
His hand slides down to my belly, caressing the gentle swell. This is his child I carry. His ultimate claim to my autonomy.
"I never doubted you for a second, dear. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came around. I'm so glad aunt Adelaide left you the Ruby to help you along your way."
"I wish I could thank her in person," I say... then, I nearly drop the phone as Howard twists my nipples a bit too enthusiastically.
"Yes, we all miss her very much," my mother responds, oblivious to my tiny little gasps.
"Mmmm," is all I can manage in response.
"Well, I won't keep you," my mother says. "I'm sure you have a lot on your plate right now. Just remember to always listen to Howard, and you're going to be fine!"
"I will, Mom. I promise," I say, standing up from the chair.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, letting the phone clatter on the table as I lean into my man's touch. It feels so good, fits so well, like we're two interlocking pieces of a puzzle. He's my anchor, my rock, my man.
My master.
He kisses me gently on the lips. "Are you ready?" he asks.
I nod, jittering with anticipation. I'm ready as I'm likely to ever be. Today is the day I finally bid farewell to Vivian Montgomery, corporate go-getter, and fully embrace my true calling as a meek, submissive housewife.
Future housewife. We're not married yet... but at the end of the day, it's the role I'm already fulfilling, and that will be even truer, after what I'm about to do.
It's time to resign. To torch the career that I've misguidedly obsessed so much over. To focus on my proper, reduced feminine duties of home-keeping and motherhood. To be tamed, dependent, and dedicated, and dominated. In other words...
It's time for the rest of my life.
***
I take in the sound of my own steps, one after the other.
It's late in the day, and outside, shadows lengthen. The office lobby is deserted, which makes the sound of my heels clicking against the polished marble floor even more surreal. It seems to echo the finality of this moment, the end of an era in my life.
It's my last day as a working woman.
How many hours have I spent, toiling in this place, trying to climb the corporate ladder? Honing my skills, forging a career that I once believed would define me?
Being a selfish, entitled bitch to Howard?
Such a waste of time and energy. It should have all been immediately redirected to his comfort and his needs, to his authority and his pleasure, to his will.
But better late than never.
I run a hand through my hair, sighing as I linger near the exit. I want to savor the moment.
My resignation has drawn a mixture of surprise and curiosity from my colleagues. After all, I was the workaholic on the rise, the woman who never seemed to tire, who was always ready to take on an extra shift if it looked good with management.
When they ask me why I'm leaving, I resort to the feminine grace of a proper, polite response that always nips any further questions in the bud.
"I want to focus on motherhood," I've been telling them, my voice steady and sincere. It's the truth, after all. It's just that the depth of my commitment to this new role, the extent of my submission to my husband's authority, is a detail I've chosen to keep private.
It's not for them to know.
Most of my coworkers have accepted this without further probing. Well -- except Isabelle, and I guess that's fair, given that she's more of a mentor than a colleague. She's a bit older than me, and as one of the few women in a managerial position here, she's always been very protective of female employees. She's as kind as she is committed to her feminist delusion, and I guess it makes sense she would have a harder time making peace with such a sweeping change in attitude.
I know that she's only concerned for my well-being. It's not her fault, really. It's just that we now have very different ideas of what female well-being looks like.
Speak of the devil.
I thought I was alone here at this hour, but apparently not. The doors to the elevator slide open, and out comes Isabelle, lost in thought and rummaging through her purse. When she looks up and spots me, her eyes widen. She offers me a smile, though there's a hint of concern in her expression.
"Vivian! I didn't expect to see you here so late."
I offer a smile. "Just letting it all sink in before I leave this place behind for good. I'm sentimental, like that."
She frowns at that. I have not, in fact, been especially known for my sentimentality, before my recent transformation. "Hey, listen," she says, her voice dropping lower. "Can we talk for a minute?"
I pause, cocking my head in acknowledgement. "Of course, Isabelle. What's on your mind?"
She steps closer to me and takes her hands into mine. That surprises me. "I just... want to make sure that you're certain this is what's best for you. I mean, it's your choice and I'll support you, but... I don't know, Viv. I'm worried for you."
I smile back at her, trying to disperse her doubts with my confidence.
"I appreciate your concern, dear," I reply gently, "I understand it. But... yes, I'm ready. This is exactly what I need."
She looks at me for a moment, as if searching for any signs of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, she nods slowly. "Well, if you say so... I'm glad you've found your path, Viv. I know I really shouldn't worry..." she bites her lip, looking away, before refocusing on me. "Maybe it's because we've never really talked about your home life, and it's none of my business if you didn't want to share, but... um. If you like, you're welcome to have dinner at my place, any time. Just to touch base."
My instinctive response is to tell her I'll have to ask Howard's permission, but I catch myself just in time. No need to alarm her further, right? I can already imagine Howard chuckling at this whole conversation!
"Sure, Isabelle. I... I think that would be nice," I say. "I'll let you know, okay?"
"That would be great, Vivian," Isabelle says, her smile returning. "Just let me know. And, well, take care of yourself, okay? I'm your friend, and I'll always be there for you."
There's a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me as my eyes search hers. Gratitude for her concern. Appreciation, because she's a good person. And... something else.
