My editing team is the best. PapaKilo14, Hal, Pixel the Cat, Georgeanderson and Olddave1951. They catch my stupid mistakes, correct me when my stories contradict themselves and cut the fat. I'm very grateful and I love you guys. You know what you do. The readers only see the end result. I get the credit but you know. I get peer review from HarddaysKnight and Saxon_Hart. I love you guys, too, and having you in my corner, reading my stories first, makes all the difference. You know how many you read that never get posted because you think they suck. You keep me from looking stupid. Well, any stupider than I have to.
Author's note: I'm not an attorney. I found out as much as I could, but I'm not a professional researcher, I'm a teacher. If the law is different and you lawyers out there know better, I'm sure you'll let me know. I've never been divorced, so I know only what I can find out from others who have, and the internet. This is my world, and I get to make the laws. Hope you enjoy. Randi.
"In time, every successful revolution puts on the robes of the tyrant it has deposed." Barbara Tuchman said that. I suspect she's correct. I never dreamed I was a tyrant, but I suppose the villains in life seldom realize their roles. They always excuse their actions, as if, somehow, their villainy were acceptable because they are the ones doing it. Standards of things, like honesty, fair play, selflessness, which they demand from others, they have no regard for in themselves. If you lie to them, treat them unfairly, show no regard for them, they complain bitterly, but let the shoe be on the other foot and it's just peachy. I wasn't always a villain. In fact, few people of my acquaintance seem to realize that I'm a villain. My wife and my two daughters are the ones who cast me in that role.
Somehow, in an Orwellian twist, objecting to lying and cheating became tyrannical. After the insurrection, my wife became the tyrant.
My wife is Amber. She's a tall, dark complected beauty. I'm not sure of her ancestry. She, and her mother, claim Native American bloodlines, but everyone does. She has more of a Mediterranean look to me. My name is Kabrick North. I have no idea where my parents found that name, or what my ancestry is, either. Everyone calls me Kab. My two daughters are Dacy and Tobe. Dacy was fifteen and Tobe was thirteen.
The first sign of my new role came as we lay in bed on a Saturday night. Amber had just finished fucking me into exhaustion. I was spooning her, holding one big brown breast cupped in the palm of my hand and her fantastic ass pushed into my softening cock. She turned her head to look at me and I drowned in her huge brown eyes. "Kab," she said. "The girls at work asked me go to a lodge with them next weekend and scrapbook. Would you mind?"
Actually, I did mind, but not very much. I had tickets to a baseball game and I had intended to take her and the girls. I hadn't mentioned anything to them, yet. It was just spring training, so it wasn't a big deal. "No, I know you like that kind of thing," I said. "Go and have a good time. You've been wanting to catch up on getting our pictures organized."
Not a villain, right? This was the beginning of my ascent to the tyrant's throne, although I had no idea at the time. She went, and came back very happy. She had made three new albums of our family pictures, all decorated up with things she liked. She was very proud of them. I admired them for the requisite time and forgot about it. The next month, she went again. After six months, it became twice a month and this escalated over a year's time to once a week. None of this was a problem until Bianca, one of Amber's friends from work, saw me in the grocery store. She asked me why I never came with Amber.
"Well, I have very little interest in scrapbooking," I told her. "Anyway, I've never been invited."
She looked at me funny. "We only scrapbook once a month," she said. "The rest of the time we go out for drinks and dancing. Jeremy always comes with me. You should come. It'd be fun." Jeremy is her husband.
Who knew? I had never heard one word about drinks and dancing. As far as I knew, it was all about making pretty books. I hadn't checked to see what Amber's scrapbooks were looking like, because as I said, I have very little interest in scrapbooks, none, in fact. We obviously needed to have a talk.
I went straight home. Amber was out and Dacy wanted to talk to me. Her boyfriend had asked her to go to a concert. She went places with him when they were part of a group. I had major qualms about a fifteen-year-old girl going to a concert alone with her seventeen-year-old boyfriend. I told her she could go if other friends went with them. My rule was that she couldn't date alone until she was old enough to drive. I explained this for the thousandth time and she went off in a huff. "God, Daddy, you're such a freaking tyrant," she said in a parting shot. I was adapting to my new role. This was the first time I was made aware of my lofty position. She didn't speak to me for three days.
When Amber got home, I cornered her. "I saw Bianca at the grocery store and she asked me if I was coming to your next drinks and dancing, slash, scrapbooking event," I said.
Amber's face flushed and she immediately took a defensive attitude. "I've been meaning to ask you," she said.
"Ah, I guess it just slipped your mind," I said. "It must have been difficult to remember to mention that scrapbooking had morphed into drinking and dancing. I completely understand. They are so similar in nature that you just forgot. Well, no problem, we husbands are rarely interested in their wives drinking and dancing, anyway. Is there anything else you've been meaning to tell me?"
"There's no need for the sarcasm," she snapped back. "I don't have to tell you what I'm doing every minute of the day."
"No, I suppose you're right," I said. "Typically, though, people seem to think it's important for their spouse to know where they are, just in case of emergencies, you know. Jeremy seems to know Bianca is dancing and drinking. She even told me he goes with her. Can you imagine that? I can't imagine any man wanting to be with his wife while she was drinking and dancing, can you?"
She flushed even more. "You know you don't care anything about dancing," she said. "This is just a girl thing."
"Jeremy's a girl?" I asked. "I had no idea. He doesn't set my gaydar off at all. It must be getting defective. When did he switch teams?"
"Don't be stupid," she said. "He isn't gay. He just likes to be there to make sure Bianca doesn't get in over her head."
"Strange man," I said. "Do any other husbands share his paranoia?"
"None of the other husbands know what we do," she said.
"So Bianca is the only honest woman in the group?" I asked. "Nice set of friends you have there, Amber."
"You don't know them, and I don't appreciate you making snide remarks about my friends," she said. "None of the other husbands try to be a dictator like you. No one is being dishonest."
"You mean, other than you," I said. "Maybe the others aren't married."
"How can you accuse me of being dishonest?" she was ready to explode. "I never lied about anything!"
"No, I suppose you're right," I said. "I apologize. What I meant to say was that she's the only one in the group that isn't a deceitful bitch."
Amber looked at me as if I'd slapped her and stormed off upstairs. Dinner was a little strained that evening. With two of them not speaking to me, it was very awkward. I can do awkward. I went and watched a basketball game before going upstairs. Amber was already in bed and the bedroom door was locked. I got the little round key down off the doorjamb and unlocked it, replaced the key and went in. She was lying on the bed and she raised her head when I opened the door.
"Get out," she said. "You're sleeping on the couch."
I ignored her and got clean underwear out of my drawer. "I'm not sleeping with you," she said. "It's going to be a long time before you get back in here."
I ignored her and got in the shower. When I was through, I went and got in bed. She sat up. "I told you you're not sleeping here!" she snarled. "Get out."
"I don't need your permission to sleep in my own bed," I told her. "If you don't like it, you go sleep on the couch." I think she was shocked. I've heard men talk about their wives making them sleep on the couch. I always thought it was a metaphor. Apparently, she'd heard the same stories and believed them. Maybe she'd heard different stories where men actually go sleep on the couch. Fortunately, I outweigh her by seventy pounds, I'm four inches taller and she would find me tough to drag. I guess she thought she could just lock me out of my own bedroom and I'd be as meek as a lamb. Well, this lamb was becoming a lion. That's what we tyrants do. We refuse to cooperate in our own deposition. She was spitting mad.
.... There is more of this story ...