Second Wife

"So, how's the little wifey?" Henry Morefield asked me with a big grin on his too-wide Irish face. "Barefoot and pregnant?" He chuckled all the way to the tee. Out of respect for the game I let him complete his drive before I answered, popping open a beer as I did so. It was a warm January for our little corner of the South, which meant it was perfect weather for golf, if you didn't mind the fairways having that icky brown color and the players wearing the ugliest sweaters on the planet. Henry had joined me at the last minute when my client I'd reluctantly agreed to play with cancelled out with an emergency. Henry had had a contract signing planned, but it had fallen through, too. We hadn't spoken much since he helped me with that little contract I forced Mary to sign, and I appreciated the chance to catch up.

Even though I'm not particularly fond of golf -- a "good walk, spoiled", as the man said. But like the three-martini-lunch and the client dinner/strip club, it was a necessary part of the job. And today there wasn't any pressure, since there wasn't a client, and I found I was actually enjoying the game.

"A little of both," I sighed. "But she won't be my wife for much longer."

"Oh?" he asked, as he put his club away. "Is she fulfilling her agreement?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm getting head left and right," I assured him. "And other stuff, if I want it."

"Sounds like a good deal," he murmured, hesitantly. "Apart from the whole she's-carrying-a-bastard-in-her-belly thing."

"Yeah, that's a little hard to take on a daily basis," I sighed. "Excruciating, actually. That was supposed to be my baby, and we were supposed to share this whole experience. Now . . . well, I mostly leave her alone about the pregnancy."

"Well, she won't be pregnant forever," he said, in an attempt to sooth me. "Right. So when she's not pregnant, then what do I do?" I asked. I meant it to be rhetorical.

"My advise? Toss her ass out. Get your jollies however you need to to move on, then send her packing and start over."

"And part of me wants to do that," I agreed, as I approached the tee.

"Desperately. Getting a lot of strange pussy after too long of a drought has been very . . . motivating."

I waited until I had put my ball in the air -- a fair shot, landing about two hundred yards in the fairway -- before I continued. "But the other part of me wants to forgive, forget, reconcile, and try to salvage our life together. We were in love, once. I could be again. With the Mary I married, not the cheating whore who lives with me now."

"Not sure that the woman you married can every come back," he grunted as I got into the cart and he took off towards our balls. "Not in any way you could trust her."

"And that's the thing," I agreed. "That's it exactly. How can I ever trust her again? I mean, I know there has to be a way. I've even found a way, I think, at least to truly test the theory."

"What? This should be interesting," he chuckled evilly.

So I told him. I'd come up with the basics of the plan when I had been shacking with Susan up in Canada, and had been refining the details in my mind ever since. It was, at various points, cunning, crude, and cruel, but it should get the job done, to my mind. When all was said and done I would know without a shadow of a doubt just how much Mary loved me and how faithful she was, and that would tell me much of what I wanted to know before I proceeded with the rest of my life.

Henry listened attentively until I wound down. Then he shook his head in amazement.

"Big, hairy brass ones you've got, Bill," he sighed admiringly. "Never would have . . . looked at it that way. Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a woman who's cheated on you. But hey, tell her that her old car drives like a fucking first-time blowjob!" he added, smiling beatifically." I had sold Henry the car I'd bought Mary for her birthday within hours of her telling me she was leaving me.

"It'll be worth the time and trouble, just to know for certain. That way I can put it in the past one way or another."

"And in the mean time?"

"I watch her get fat and abuse the hell out of her mouth," I said, chuckling evilly. "That part, at least, is without any potential moral murkiness. At least from my point of view -- I'm sure a friendly neighborhood feminist would have all sorts of rude things to say about it."

"I still think you should just throw the bitch out," Henry sighed. "It'd make the paperwork a hell of a lot simpler. .

"Yeah, but it would deprive me of my amusement," I countered. "Honestly, I'm just not ready to let her off the hook, yet. One way or another."

***

That first month of our new arrangement, I just wanted to make her suffer.

That's not an unusual sentiment for a husband to have about his wife, especially a soon-to-be-ex-wife. But my situation was unique -- at least, I had never heard of it happening before. Since my "wife" was now more my maid than my spouse, it seemed only natural that I would begin my campaign of mental torture by returning to habits of my bachelor-days -- habits she had spent years breaking me of.

The obvious ones, of course: towels on the floor, toilet seat being left up, not cleaning the hair out of the tub, you name the transgression, I was all over it. I hit her pet peeves particularly hard, the minutia of daily existence that she had spent the years since our honeymoon training me out of. I left the top off the mustard bottle. I drank out of the milk carton. I threw my coat across the back of the kitchen chair when I came home -- though the proper hook for the garment was just two feet away. Every little nuisance where I had compromised in the course of our domestic habitation became a new symbol of slovenly freedom for me. And she just had to take it -- and not say a fucking word.

The mood between us had changed dramatically, of course, as our new living situation cured into place. This used to be 'our' house, remember, her home. She had had a hand in choosing every piece of furniture, had selected each color scheme -- on my dollar. Now it was clearly 'my' house and she was an underemployed maid, living here at my pleasure. And for my pleasure. I wasted no opportunity in rubbing her nose in that fact every time I caught her lapsing back into our old 'married' routine.

I used to roll out of bed, make coffee, go out and get the paper, grab a shower, and by the time I was getting on my suit she was starting to stir. An indulgent husband can put up with such bullshit. An angry employer, not so much. The first time I caught her trying to sleep in, it was cold stares for breakfast and a long list of household chores I wanted completed by the time I returned home.

I used to make dinner every Friday night, if we didn't go out, showing off my particular talent for pasta while we split two bottles of wine. That had faded as she had grown more distant -- and died completely when she started fucking someone else -- but she tried to bring it back by getting out the pasta machine out of the cupboard the first Friday she was back, and buying two bottles of red wine. She left them expectantly waiting on the kitchen counter. The doctor had approved one glass a day, for her -- and she was being careful. But the implication was there. I just looked at the stuff when I got home, looked up at her coldly inquisitive.

"I just thought . . . it would be nice," she said, in a meek tone.

"I have a date," I said, matter-of-factly. I didn't, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. "Why waste a perfectly good Friday night here, with you, when I could be out getting righteously laid?" That hit her hard. She nodded, tears in her eyes, and put the pasta appliances away.

But it didn't quite stop her from trying.

We used to go to the Oswald's Superbowl party every year as a couple -- it was one of those neighborhood affairs that passes for a social life in the suburbs. She told me that Melanie Oswald had called with the invitation, an expectant look in her eye. I gave her a bland stare and muttered something about having other plans.

Then I changed my mind. If she wanted to show off her new "relationship" with her husband, how could I pass up such an opportunity? In an apparent "moment of weakness" I grudgingly agreed we could go, and so we went.

But if Mary was thinking that being out again as a "couple" would be helpful to her cause, I killed that idea quickly. Since moving out and in with Tim The Small Dicked Wonder, Mary had lost touch with the bitchy and shallow social strata she used to inhabit. If she expected our neighbors to welcome her back, she was rudely awakened. Instead of rekindling our romance, it did little more than ostracize and humiliate Mary.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew about our situation, and the sight of her big belly trying to navigate through the crowded living room, fighting drunk football fans for snack foods while she was being pointedly ignored by just about every woman in the room, was priceless. My male neighbors leered at her like she was a slut. The women would barely speak to her.

Me? I got sympathy from both -- and two phone numbers from recent divorcees.

Mary tried to be stoic about it, hanging around a deserted corner of the living room drinking juice and trying to disappear. But I could tell that she felt devastated -- especially when Tammy Horner very publicly grabbed my ass and crotch after her fifth Long Island Iced Tea. I indulged her by pulling her into the bathroom for a few moments of fevered necking, during which time I felt her up while she massaged my cock through my pants. Only Mary witnessed us leaving the bathroom together, which inspired a deep blush and a downcast face from her that I found very pleasing.

I was so pleased, in fact, that I had to indulge myself. Mary was near tears by that point, but I excused myself and motioned her to follow me. She looked grateful -- obviously she thought I had signaled that it was time for us to flee the humiliation. Instead I pulled my plaything into the Oswalds' darkened garage, sat her on the top step, back to the door, and had her blow me until I unloaded a powerful stream of jizz in her cheeks. Worst yet, Melanie Oswald busted us as we were coming back inside, recognizing Mary's guilty look for what it was. If Mary's sluthood was in doubt before, by the end of the game everyone there was convinced she'd fuck a passing goat if one was handy.

So much for trying to get us back into our "normal" Superbowl party.

But it still didn't stop her from trying. Every chance she got, Mary tried to inject some normalcy from our past into the present fucked-up situation. And every time I caught her at it, I shut her down . . . hard. I took pleasure in doing so, I won't deny it. Like I said, I wanted to make her suffer, and reminding her daily of just how big she had fucked up her own life was a grand way to do it.

That didn't mean I didn't use her -- her mouth, at least. I was enjoying the hell out of the blowjobs. She was still keeping track, of course. I wasn't. If she wanted to pin her hopes of an eventual reconciliation on the power of the piggy, that was her business -- I was taking her at her word and fucking her face any time I wanted. She bore it with a mixture of stoic resignation and eager arousal, depending upon her mood.

For example, apart from her frequent morning escapades, the first few weeks when I got home from work I'd sit there and watch Sportscenter while I had her work on me with her lips. I'd interrupt her every now and then to go get me a beer -- and I'm not a particular fan of beer. But the sight of her pulling her mouth off of my dick, waddling into the kitchen to bring me back a cold one, and then returning to sucking me off while I popped it open was so much the epitome of the American Male Dream that I went out of my way to do it. I even made her take her shoes off, which she didn't get, at first. Then realized that she was barefoot, pregnant, sucking her husband's cock while he watched sports. Mary isn't quick, but she's not stupid.

I especially enjoyed making her blow me when she didn't feel like it -- and as that baby grew in her tummy, she didn't feel like it more and more. Still, I rarely relented, unless there was a genuine health issue involved -- like vomit. She still had very occasional morning sickness, after all, and that was someplace I just didn't want to go.

But when she was fine, physically, but just feeling a little down (not at all uncommon, considering the number her hormones were doing on her brain) I'd notice. Instead of capitulating to my visceral reaction to comfort her, I'd walk up to her, nod, and sit -- or stand -- and wait for her to unzip me. She didn't verbally complain of course, because that would violate our deal, but she frequently gave me ugly glances as she sank to her knees and did the wifely duty she had neglected for so long.

I savored those moments most of all. When her head was bobbing mechanically back and forth, my prick sliding across the surface of her unenthusiastic tongue, her lips enclosed passively around the shaft, I'd revel in her erotic reluctance. About half the time she'd garner some simple lustful interest just from the sexual act, and finish me off with a lingering aura of arousal, but the other half of the time she would placidly accept my grunted offering of sperm with all of the enthusiasm of a bored grocery store cashier. When I was finished -- and by now she knew not to pull off my cock without my permission -- I would pop my softening dick back out and spend a few moments running the sticky shaft all over her face. She bore it patiently, but I could feel the humiliation and anger roll off of her in waves.

The hardest part for me during that first month was actually disciplining myself not to spend too much time thinking about her and her on-going humiliation. She was in love with me, or thought she was, remember. She was desperately trying to get me to re-discover my love for her, any way she could. Sometimes Mary went out of her way to do something to incite me to anger. If she couldn't have my genuine affection, she would settle for my wrath.

But the opposite of love is not hate, it's disinterest. It would be all too easy to indulge in some genuine emotional abuse, scream, rant, throw things, break stuff -- but that would demonstrate I cared enough for her to be angry. But when I answered her little challenges with casual disinterest, it really broke her heart. And that's what I wanted. I wanted her to suffer, and that was the best way to do it.

By the end of January, when the weather is constantly overcast and drizzly here, a kind of desperate malaise had settled in over her. I was busy at work, getting my clients' end-of-year tax forms prepared, so Mary was left alone in her former home for long periods of time. I kept tabs on her, of course -- I could access the clandestine cameras in her room by web -- and she spent a lot of time curled up on her humble bed, reading magazines or watching television or crying. She did a lot of crying. And writing in her diary. One passage in particular is telling:

Jan 28

It's been three weeks now and Bill has been cruel. Not by punishing me, like I expected, but by totally ignoring me. Our one outing at the Oswalds' was a disaster. I'll never be able to look Melanie Oswald in the eye again. But every day he gets up and goes to work and he doesn't come home until night, and then he just uses me for a blowjob and goes to bed. I never thought that this would be this hard. Or that I would be so lonely. I keep trying to think of friends who live out of town and might not have heard about my situation, but no matter who I call, they seem to know. Mom and Dad barely speak to me. My sister is busy at work. I feel completely unloved and isolated. I know part of this is the hormones talking, but I cannot help but feel a profound sense of depression. I thought things would be different, once Tim left. Bill won, didn't he? I know he is angry, but he won. Shouldn't that mean something to him?

Even when I think about the baby, I feel sad because I know I'll have to give him up. Why is God doing this to me? I know I broke a Commandment, but . . .

Mary frequently talked about God in her diary. She and her family were devout Catholics, and going to mass was about as social as she got these days. She also continued weekly counseling sessions with her priest. I think those are what got her through the worst times. His advice had been clear: trust God, obey the sacrament of marriage, and offer herself utterly to me as a wife -- for we would always be married in the eyes of God, no matter what. If God wanted her to suffer through this penance, that was His right, and she had to be a good little Catholic girl and just take it.

I liked her priest.

***

Two days after Groundhog Day she slipped upstairs, sucked me off, started my shower, and scampered off to fix breakfast, as usual. I started to get ready for work when I noticed a calendar entry on my laptop I had forgotten. I changed into more casual attire after sending an email to my secretary letting her know I would be late.

"Why are you so dressed down today?" she asked, politely, as I ate. She was washing dishes.

"You have an OB appointment in an hour," I mentioned. "I'm going with you."

She paused and looked at me, her eyes a bit wider. "What?"

"Your first appointment with your new obstetrician is at nine thirty," I said, slowly and deliberately. "I shall be attending."

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"Because, legally speaking, you are still my wife. You might be carrying someone else's bastard, but until we are divorced I still have some insurable interest in that womb of yours. So I'll be attending as many of your OB sessions as I can."

"That's . . . very considerate of you, Bill, but really, it's not necessary—"

"Had you not slutted yourself out," I interrupted, "and had instead gotten pregnant with me, like you were supposed to, I would be attending all of your appointments with you. It was an experience I had looked forward to, back when I loved you. Just because the situation has changed, I don't think I want to miss out. Besides, since you are living under my roof I think it's wise that I be completely aware of your medical situation.

She looked pale and embarrassed at the same time, and a tempest of emotion lay behind her furrowed brow. But after a moment of strained silence she finally cleared her throat. "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate it."

"Oh, it's not for your benefit," I reminded her.

"Still," she said, meekly. "It sucks to go to the OB alone."

Once again her hopes were raised -- I was attending an appointment with her. That was as close to showing "interest" in her life as I had gotten since she moved back in. Like any desperate woman, she grasped at that straw with both hands and held on with a deathgrip.

I wasn't being kind, as she soon found out. It was another opportunity for cruel humiliation. I drove her to the appointment, neatly deflecting all the attempts at casual conversation she tried to start. I helped her out of the car -- much easier to manage with luxury seats than her crappy economy vehicle -- and got her checked in. Much nicer office than her previous doc -- the couple who was adopting her baby were footing the bill now, so she was able to escape the Public Health system. We were soon both escorted back to an exam room where an ultrasound machine loomed near the table.

I watched with mild interest as Mary slipped out of her panties (growing tighter by the day as her butt expanded) and waited patiently while the nurse took her vitals and noted the results on her chart. Everything was normal, she said. Just before she slipped away, she apologized in advance for the wait -- Dr. Simmons had just gotten back from a delivery and was running a little late.