It all seemed richly apropos considering the ominous secret she was hiding from her friends, family, and husband. Jenny found herself crouched in the bedroom closet contemplating the “good old days”. The further she descended into the “old days”, however, the less “good” she uncovered. In fact, hunkered down among fantastic blouses, fabulous shoes, and familiar angst, she could only recall that one good booze-soaked evening when she first realized Turner was the most amazing man she had met…that week.
How in the fuck did she end up marrying him?
How in the fuck did she end up the mother of his two children?
Why was her asshole the only thing he was currently allowed to fuck?
What did that say about her?
What did that say about him?
What would her mother say?
As profound as these questions were, they’d have to wait for the next therapy session—vineal or psycho, she’d yet to decide. Currently, there was an evil deed to be done, and she would not go unpunished.
Jenny poked her head around the edge of the closet door, “Turner! Get in here! Now!” she spat.
“The kids are due at soccer in 27 minutes, and I’m in the middle of something. What do you want?” he spat back.
She momentarily weighed the notion of denying him all manner of sexual gratification strictly out of spite. But Turner could be a nightmare when not carnally sated. As pleasing as a sexual famine would be for her, the certain negative consequences of this course of action were outweighed by the soothing effect anal sex seemed to have on this savage beast with whom she shared a bed.
She pressed on with their preposterous exchange. “Well, if you want to fuck a furry asshole later tonight, just keep dilly dallying.”
“On my way…!” Turner hurriedly exclaimed.
As he sashayed into the room with all of the enthusiasm of an adolescent male on prom night with a borrowed car with a bottle of Red Hot under the seat, he found Jenny concealing her naked body behind the closet door. She was intently motioning for him to retrieve something from under the bed.
While Turner cast the dust ruffle aside, it dawned on Jenny that shielding her goods from the man about to hot wax her asshole bald was rather futile. But, it had become a reflex at this point—so deep-rooted that she had recently and covertly gathered numerous estimates for getting the the glass shower enclosure frosted.
Turner retrieved the depilatory lava from under the bed. “Are you sure it’s hot enough?” he asked.
“Hot enough to not burn me from the outside in,” Jenny smirked, “Where are the kids?,” she asked.
“They are at the Dahlke’s eating take-out. I’m driving all four of them to soccer practice,” Turner glanced down at his watch, “In like 20 minutes.”
Jenny sighed, “Well then you better get on with it,”
As many times as she’d mustered the courage to suffer this indignity, it was still difficult for her to assume such a vulnerable position for this man she now despised. Enduring the same procedure in the food court of the nearby mall during the lunch rush at the hands of some random stranger seemed preferable to what was about to transpire.
…he’s easier when he’s gotten his daily release… was the mantra she repeatedly chanted in her head. Plus, sex in the “alternate hole” was generally a 90-second endeavor with Turner. This was a small price to pay in her mind for the peace it brought.
“Brace yourself.” Turner announced in a devious tone.
It was clear that nearly as much as he enjoyed humiliating her in bed, playing the role of inappropriate and inept esthetician also brought him considerable glee.
As Turner applied the scalding amber to his wife’s most tender of spots, Jenny yelped, “Gawd! No matter how many times someone butters your asshole with hot wax, you are never really prepared.”
After carefully applying the strips to the rapidly drying wax, Turner used his elbow to rub them in with a devil-make-hair smile.
Before responding, “Nice, Turner, nice,” as this travesty was occurring behind her, Jenny couldn’t help but consider how bleak everything unfolding before her suddenly become. It was amazing the clarity one could achieve under extraordinary circumstances such as these.
“Are you ready?” Turner queried as he grabbed her hips with both hands.
“As I’ll ever be…” Jenny replied, …you fucker…! Jenny thought as she tensed up awaiting the inevitable jolts of pain about to strike her sensitive region.
Turner ripped off both strips and did some sort of depraved celebratory dance as he waved the hairy strips in the air. The dance inevitably crescendoed in a series if pelvic thrusts.
Jenny swung her head around and asked, “How does it look? Is it smooth the way you like it?”
Turner responded, "Baby, Studly Moore will fill your tank later tonight.”
For some unknown reason, he had recently taken to assigning himself blatantly sexual monikers based on the names of Hollywood actors. Studly Moore, albeit juvenile as hell, was one of his better aliases she had to admit.
Jenny frowned and thought, …oh goodie…
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© 2015 – ∞ B. Charles Donley