“If I was getting what I needed at home, I wouldn’t have
been looking for it elsewhere,” she said so matter of factly, I felt like a cuck
again, but refrained from mentioning how she sometimes brought some of those
men home, screwing them while I was at work, she telling me they had no other
place to go, which was why she insisted I let them sleep on our couch. I’m sure
she would have moved them into the bedroom and put me on the couch, if she
could have found a way to justify it.
“You had your nights out with Hank,” she said, suggesting I
might have been doing what she did while out on the town, when I stayed loyal,
even when she did not.
Jane, on of the girls she went out with, did not warn me
about what went on, how my ex acted like a slut in the clubs near the mall, and
sometimes took on more than one man at a time, and often many more men in sequence
during the long night, I catching a whiff of cum and cologne when she got back
home.
During those nights, I took care of the baby. When I lost my
job, she suggested she might get a job instead and leave me to become a house
husband.
She told me I was good at cleaning, doing dishes, and other
chores. She was extremely disappointed when I resisted.
“You’d look real pretty wearing a French maid’s outfit,” she
said, while later I wondered just how far she would take it, dressing me up as
a sissy for the amusement (possibly pleasure) of her male friends.
I suspect she might not have left had I agreed to her terms.
She really wanted a life in which she had total control.
“I’m sure you would have had a great time walking the baby
to the park everyday,” she said during our recent conversation, suggesting she
still felt sad about the turn of events. “You might even have gotten lucky with
some of them.”
I didn’t want to fuck lonely housewives; I wanted life to go
on as it was supposed to, husband, wife and baby.
It took me a decade to get over my failed marriage; she got
over me right away.
“The way you get over a man is to get under another man,”
she told me.
Why she had contacted me again was a bit of a puzzle, since she’d
had a string of men after me (including several additional ex-husbands), but
assured me none of them were anything like me.
“You know we could make it work if we tried,” she said, with
that same glint in her eyes, as if she already pictured me in that French Maid
outfit, and was already calculating how good life would be if she could once
again bring her male friends home, where I could feed and entertain them, maybe
hiring me out to those lonely housewives she envisioned me with long ago, or
perhaps to the parade of lonely house husbands.
I felt the same twinge as I felt back then, intense jealousy
over the men I knew would be fucking her, and a pending “what might have been,”
over me serving them when she got finished.
“It doesn’t matter who you fuck or who fucks you,” she said.
“As long as you fuck.”
This made it clear that even after a decade, nothing fundamentally
had changed.
“I think you would look very pretty in a dress,” she said as
an afterthought. “And I’m sure some of my friends would think so, too.”
Needless to say, we never got back together, although from
time to time, I still wonder what might have happened if we had.
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