On My Seventeenth Wedding Anniversary
Copyright© 2014 by Reltney McFee
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - It's been a dozen years since The Ex left me. Her decisions come around to bite her in the ass, and she turns to me to rescue her. Revenge is, indeed, a dish best served cold!
On my 17th wedding anniversary, my divorce became final. My ex had spent the preceding year convincing me that this was, indeed, a very good thing for me. She had not convinced me that our two youngest children, still at home and in school, would find their lives similarly enhanced. That pissed me off. On the other hand, when she filed, she cited "Irreconcilable Differences". I suppose that it was accurate, though likely not in the manner she or her attorney had intended: she thought it was OK for her to have a boyfriend, and I did not. That was an irreconcilable difference for ya, right there.
Of course, for the year preceding the collapse of my marriage, I had been in what might charitably be described as a nookie deep-freeze. The Ex had given me no small amount of stool over my taking the problem in hand, so to speak, but did not take me up on my offer for her to play her trump card, and provide a more attractive alternative.
So, now that I'm providing her with a roof over her head, again, how did that happen? Ah, my friend, that is quite a tale!
Throughout our marriage, as I look back, she had played games with me, toying with my desire for her. She would promise big things, weekend after next, when the children would be at scout camp or some such thing, and repeatedly stoke the fires with alluring intimations of Good Times To Come. I would get all revved up, contemplating enjoying my (then) wife's sexy body and sexual expertise. Then would come The Weekend. And nothing would happen. NOTHING. I would hint, I would make overtures toward sexual fun times, I would flat out ask, and would either get no reply, or get told "Not now, I have a headache/my period/work/gotta finish that cold fusion reactor/logus of the bogus/a Mideast Peace conference to organize (do you, also, see a trend developing?)
Now after playing that card with me for nearly 20 years, why would she not continue this game with The New Model she had traded me in for? Of course, she continued this manipulative mess, and, The New Guy not being as patient nor as thoughtful as I continued to be, he cold cocked her. She continued the game (being slow on the uptake), and (surprise!) he popped her one, again. The good news with all this, was that the boys were with me on my week of custody when Mr. Personality performed these little laying-on-of-hands ceremonies. The good news was that she got the thumping she sorely needed. The good news was that he tossed her out. The bad news is that for some reason, she thought I would both care, and intervene to save her from the consequences of her cascade of stupid decisions, such as the decision to leave me for Young Einstein, who was nowhere near as patient as me.
I received a tearful telephone call late one night. Now I work midnights when I don't have the boys, so 0200 on a day off is no big deal to me. What was a big deal was both who was calling, and the topic of conversation.
"Bob? It's Annie. I need your help." This was a novelty. She typically spoke in monosyllables, unless she was telling me what an asshole I was.
"Really? Since the boys are here with me, what is it that I care about?" I replied.
"Lance hit me, two times, over the past week. Tonight I came home and he had piled all my stuff on the front lawn. I tried to talk to him about it, but he had changed the locks, and wouldn't come to the door. Somebody finally called the police, and they told me I had to leave and stop making a scene. I don't know where to go, or where to stay. You have to help me!"
"I have to help you? How does that work? Near as I can figure, my obligations to you ended on our seventeenth anniversary, courtesy of Judge O'Hara. I do have to confess that I'm surprised that Lance took as long to pop you as he did."
Annie responded, "You can gloat all you want, later. You have to help me right now with a place to stay tonight, and a place for all my things."
"Actually, Annie, I don't. Just like I didn't get a boyfriend, spend weekends with him while my children were home alone while their father worked 12 hour shifts 6 and 7 days a week. Just like I didn't leave my children with no food in the house while I was off with my boyfriend, just like I didn't sue you for divorce, just like that, I don't have to have anything to do with you, that doesn't have to do with the kids. You made this bed, sleep in it!"
"But, Bobbie, what am I going to do? I have nowhere to stay!"
"Annie, maybe you should call one of those girlfriends of yours, who covered for you when you were screwing Lance and your children where home wondering what they were going to eat. Or not. Either way, it is not my problem. Good night." I terminated the call then, and turned off the phone. I slept really well that night.
When I turned my phone on again in the morning, there were multiple voicemail messages from Annie, all begging for me to save her. Well, I figured, she had been able to count on me pulling her fat out of the fire for nearly 20 years, why would I change now? (Hmmm. Perhaps something about a divorce... ?) I deleted the messages, and began my day.
From time to time, the pace of my chores would slow down. During these lulls, my mind wandered. There was no question that she had hurt me, hurt me badly. Worse, and in my mind unforgivable, was the entire leave-and-party-without-providing-for-my-children issue. How, exactly, might one make up for this sort of offense? From all appearances, the boys were blissfully ignorant, caught up in their teen-aged self absorbed worlds. At their ages, that was reasonable. Paying her debt to them would necessarily destroy their insulation (so far as they yet had any) from the wreck of their parents' marriage. That left the possibility of her paying the debt, to me. What I couldn't resolve, was how to collect that debt, with collateral benefit to my children.
Now, for all of her flaws, Annie was and (so far as I can see) otherwise remains a good mother, and my sons love her. Any "debt collection" would have to be at some considerable cost to Annie, yet not remove her from her (my) children's lives. Were I to put her up in one of my rental properties, that would address her status as an Urban Outdoorsman, and support her continuing to mother our children. On the other hand, she had proven herself as deceitful, manipulative, untruthful, and generally untrustworthy. ( ... and those were her good points!) (OK, there were some affirmative good points, but not enough for me to consider taking her back, on a bet.)
Some days later, I was passing an enjoyable Saturday cleaning out my garage. As I trotted to the shredder with yet another armload of pointless mess I had saved for reasons unknown at this distance in time, I noticed a folder from my days as a landlord in Detroit. I had my share of, let us say, challenging tenants, and one's file caught my eye. This calender impaired soul had finally been offered the choice to move out, be evicted, or pay (anew) a security deposit. If he chose the new lease, in addition to the security deposit, he would have to pay a non-refundable cleaning fee, a key deposit, and first and last months' rents in advance. The deadline was the filing of the bailiff's "carry your shit to the curb" order. In total, he had to come up with $1700 in cash.
I began to jot some notes. Annie had cost me a bunch of money for my attorney, for the summer she had told me she was making our house payments (but had not. THAT was a story, right there, for another day), for the shredding of my retirement savings, and suchlike. In addition, before I would consider entangling myself with her financial idiocy (see the house payment story, referenced above), I would insist upon a cushion, as equal as I could estimate it, to the costs she would cause me the next time she fucked me. The money part was fairly straightforward, and, including my cushion, would run around $150,000.
Then there was the Nookie Deep Freeze she had placed me into. I, of course, allowed her to place me there, because I was not about to cheat on her. Not because I'm a particularly nice guy (you'll understand that better as this story unfolds), but because I could not understand how my infidelity could fail to harm my children, directly or indirectly.
As I ruminated, ideas came, were evaluated, and either rejected, noted for further polish, or accepted. I developed a final set of notes, set them aside for a day or two, read them again, and decided they would work for me. I opened, and answered one of Annie's e-mails.
We met for lunch in the coffee shop of one of the bookstores downtown. I was early, and so saw her anxiously seeking me in the crowd. She came over, sat down, and waited for me to speak. I let her wait: my coffee was really, really good. Eventually the waiting got too much for her, and she spoke, contemptuously.
"So what are these terms, as you put it, that we need to discuss?"
I corrected her: "Annie, we do not need to discuss these terms, you do. I do not need you back in my life, fucking with my head and recreating the same old bullshit dynamics you enjoyed before your divorce. You need a place to stay, you need a place for your stuff, you need this, you need that. I can help you with these things, but I have terms. If you do not like the idea of my dictating terms, get up and walk away. If you do not like the terms that I dictate, get up and walk away. If you cannot meet the terms I dictate, get up and walk away. I do not care either way. Your needs. Your call."
She paused for a moment, and I could see the fury building up inside her red head. She took a deep breath, began to point her finger at me, and began to launch a tirade my way. I cut her off.
"You do not get to argue. I will get up right now, and walk away. You get to say yes, or no. Nothing else. One other word, a single word of argument, and you have said 'no'. Is that clear? You will not negotiate this with me."
That stopped her. She took in another breath to re-tirade me, and I pushed back my chair, stood up, and walked away without a word. Damn, I left that coffee. That coffee had been really, really good.
I opened my e-mail that evening, and lo and behold, there was an e-mail from Annie. I opened it, and read how she was sorry, she hadn't understood, I was being unreasonable, we really needed to talk, couldn't we work this out for the good of the children, etcetera. I moved it to my "Annie's Bullshit" folder, and moved on.
She sent me another e-mail the next day, and the next. The tone became increasingly desperate, more conciliatory with each passing day (friends getting tired of you sleeping on their couch, eh?) Finally came the note I was willing to reply to, as she asked me to please meet her, this time she would listen quietly, and hear me out. We met again at the same coffee shop. Again, my coffee was really, really good.
I let her sit, as I enjoyed both my coffee, and the moment. I have read that schadenfreude is taking delight in other's misfortunes. What, then, is the word for enjoying somebody reaping the harvest of their poor judgment? Whatever the word, I was so there!
I began with my preamble: "Annie, I know you have been balling Lance for the past two years. I figured it out nearly 8 months later, but I am convinced that it is accurate. When you moved in with him, that was a move I had seen coming. I told my buddies you would get hit, when he got tired of your manipulative bullshit. Now you want me to save you. I will talk with you about it, but here is the price of admission to that conversation: $150,000 cash, and video of Lance fucking you in all three holes. Next, I get to fuck you in all three holes, and save it on video. Last, you convince one of your girlfriends to let me fuck her in all three holes, and capture it on video. Then we can talk about what I am willing to do to get you off the sofas and off the street, and on what terms."
I knew she'd get hot over that, and she proved me correct. Her face got red to match her hair, her eyes narrowed, and she took in that deep, pre-tirade breath. I stood up, and cut her off. "I see you do not like that idea. Fine, good luck." I walked away.
I didn't read any of her e-mails for nearly a week. Finally, idly curious, I opened the latest, and read it:
"How do you expect me to do any of these things? I
have no money, none of my friends will ball you, and
I will not let you do me in the ass. And that video bit is just perverted. I will not do it, and you cannot
expect me to!"
I replied to that note.
"I don't expect you to do any of these things, let alone all four. They are simply the preconditions to any conversation regarding my helping you out of this hole you have dug for yourself. If any or all of them are intolerable to you, simply walk away and do not bother me again. Those are my terms, and I will not negotiate them."
After another week, I began, again, to receive conciliatory e-mails. In each of them, she wanted to ignore this term, or that, or all of them, in my preconditions. I did not reply to any of them. In the next couple of weeks, the tone became more and more pleading. I figured that she was rapidly running up to the end of her friends-who-will-let-her-sleep-on-the-couch list. In addition, with the looming advent of the school year, letting the boys sleep over on somebody's floor during her custody week would lose its allure. Particularly with Friend of the Court. Now, THAT was a dime, simply waiting to be dropped!
Finally came the e-mail (again) I would reply to: "I have no options. Can we talk? /Annie"
Same coffee shop, same really, really good coffee, same let-her-wait. Finally she broke the silence. "How do you expect me to get $150,000? If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't come crawling back to you in the first place."
I really was somewhat lacking in sympathy. "Well, perhaps Lance will loan it to you, or your family, or your friends. I do not care if you like the terms, or meet them. On the other hand, I will not enter into a discussion with you about my helping you with your problems, without it."
"You are being ridiculous. None of them would loan me that kind of money, and if they would, I wouldn't need you!"
She had me there. "Annie, you don't need me now, just as you haven't needed me since you began to, let us say, date, Lance, and whoever preceded him. And, for a fact, I not only do not need you, I am uninterested in you. Do you have anything else to say, that I might want to hear?"
"Bob, you are so unreasonable! How do you expect me to just conjure up this sort of money? You act like you just don't care at all!"
"Annie: I'm not acting as if I do not care: I really, truly do not care. Now, if you intend to regale me with a complete list of my shortcomings, I have to go. I don't think I have enough time to sit here while you review the entire catalog of how I'm an asshole. Bye." With that, I got up to leave.
I had taken two steps by the time she found the words to stop me. "Don't you want to see this video I have for you?"
Turning back to her, I asked: "Do I? What could interest me in it?"
Averting her eyes, coloring slightly, she told me. "You might know one of the actors. You might approve of the script. You might give me a chance to convince you that it was enough for you."
"You know my terms. This might meet one of them, but there are three others you have not yet met. It will not be enough. Let me know when you are ready to meet my demands." And, with that, I left. This time, I took my coffee.