Setting Up My Husband
By Lacey Maudlin
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to any person living or dead, places or events are entirely coincidental.
After you’re done, stay tuned for the next episode featuring more conditioning and more breakfast!
Copyright 2015 Lacey Maudlin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Setting Up My Husband.
Other Works by Lacey Maudlin
1.
“Are you a sociopath?” I asked Danielle, studying her carefully to gauge her response. I assumed she’d say no—what sociopath would admit it?—but figured her body language might still say yes. Would her eyes widen in shock for split second before her cloak of cool returns for the denial? A subtle twitch of disgust? Visible anger at being called out?
Apparently, I was overthinking things.
“Oh, finally! This is why I like you, Beth. You’re the only human who really understands me,” Danielle said, eyes brightened like I’d never seen them before.
Just to be clear: Danielle didn’t refer to me as a human because she’s some sort of magical creature or anthropomorphized object. It was just Danielle’s term for people who were not Danielle. Perhaps some politico might refer to the unwashed masses who didn’t subscribe to their viewpoint as “sheeple”. Maybe people in some unique subculture might refer to people who aren’t into what they’re into as “normals”. Danielle forever existed as part of an exclusive group with a membership of just one, and the rest of society that was excluded from this singular group, myself included, were mere humans.
But, for some reason, she “liked” this human.
“Why do you like me, exactly?” I said, stuffing a piece of pancake in my mouth.
“Because I can actually have a conversation with you, that’s why. Talk about shit like this. Honestly, I’m more interested in why you like me. You, Beth, are the nicest, sweetest little thing that would make anybody want to gag. I talk to you honestly about everyone I revile—which is everybody—and how I manipulate and generally fuck with them all, and yet we’re friends,” Danielle said, trying to get every last piece of egg away from her own pancakes and onto a separate plate so she could pour the syrup. She had some sort of food-separation OCD.
I hadn’t really thought about it, but why did I like Danielle? It really didn’t make much sense. She was, I have to be frank, a pretty terrible person. I’m a graphic designer at a marketing firm and she started as my assistant. I was no manager, didn’t ask for an “assistant”, and let her do what she wanted. Danielle started taking credit for my work, which I let her do, because hers was pretty terrible. As long as I didn’t have to take credit for her terrible work, I let it slide.
I guess I felt bad for her at the time, though I later found out she got the job by forging her portfolio and lying about her education.
Danielle ended up as lead—my boss—though little changed. She needed me to do her job, but it was really upper management she was after. In a convoluted love quadrangle I never quite understood, she managed be sleeping simultaneously with the department head, his assistant, and one of the VPs. She framed the department head, convinced the assistant to rat him out, and the VP promoted her as the new department head. She promptly fired the assistant, though apparently she’s still sleeping with him. And the VP. And the old department head.
Danielle, ruthless manipulator, my boss and my friend. Every Saturday morning, we’d have breakfast together, and she’d tell me about who she was fucking and who she was fucking over. It probably should have appalled me, but it didn’t.
Why did I like her? I didn’t know.
Before I could give the answer I didn’t have, Danielle continued, “So I guess I like you because you’re a mystery to me. I’m not trying to charm you or seduce you, in fact, I let you see my darkest side, yet you keep coming back. It’s like you have a dark side of your own that I just haven’t found yet. Maybe you’re like me, but worse—maybe one day, I’ll wake up with my tongue sewed to my asshole!”
I wasn’t quite sure how to come back from that.
“Even you wouldn’t go that far. I mean, it’s not like you’re violent,” I told her.
“No, I’m not violent,” she agreed, though with a note of sadness, “that would be a great way to end up in jail. Not my thing, anyways. I just like seducing people. I can seduce anybody.”
“That is quite the bold claim, Danielle.”
“Anybody,” she reiterated with a predatory gleam in her eye.
She certainly was good at it, I had to give her that. Danielle had slept with just about everybody at work. People just loved her, and it seemed the reason was her ability to be whatever they wanted her to be. It didn’t hurt that she was sex on legs, either.
Around me, when we were alone, she was just her nasty true self.
I wondered what that said about me.
“There are a lot of man-sluts out there, sure, but there are devoted boyfriends and husbands out there that don’t cheat, you know,” I declared almost academically.
“Anybody,” she simply said again.
“And straight women…?”
“Anybody.”
“Gay men…?”
“Anybody.”
“Okay, you’re just fucking with me now,” I concluded.
Danielle laughed, “Seriously, anybody. People are just attracted to me, what can I say? Come on to somebody, tell them what they want to hear, hell, you could do it if you wanted to. It’s not hard. Most people are an open book, you just have to not give a shit about them to really read it.”
Something about the way she carried herself, Danielle’s absolute unyielding confidence, made you really believe it. That confidence was sexy, and so was the fantastical idea that she could seduce anybody.
It made me think about my husband, Kurt. I’ve always wanted to see him with another woman. I can’t fully explain why, though I’ve tried to rationalize it a number of ways. We were high school sweethearts, married when we turned eighteen, went to college together and so on. Neither of us had ever even slept with anybody else, and I told myself he deserved to have some experiences with other women—that maybe we should have tried some relationships with other people before getting married.
One night, I even had the courage to tell Kurt about it, and he was actually hostile to the idea. He got angry at me, which was rare coming from him (if anybody got angry in our relationship, it was usually me). I even tried to talk him into going to a swinger party once, but he just wasn’t interested. Truth be told, I understood his point of view. After all, I wasn’t about to go sleeping around on him.
Kurt was simply too faithful to fulfill that particular fantasy, and thus we were doomed to an eternity of strict monogamy. I suppose most women wouldn’t complain, but hearing Danielle’s claim reawakened that desire inside of me…
If her seductive talents were really that strong, perhaps she could get old faithful to erupt for someone else.
“Danielle,” I nearly shouted, slamming my hands on the table, “I hereby challenge you!”
“Oh?” she said, bemused.
“You say you can seduce even the most faithful of men. I want you to seduce Kurt,” I said. The silence afterword was painful, particularly after realizing how loudly I’d made this proclamation in the restaurant. I tried not to be aware of who might be looking and listening.
“Your husband?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“No,” she stated definitively and shoveled a bite of syrup-free egg into her mouth.
“Why not?!?” I complained, almost whining, afraid I’d betrayed the fact
that I wanted her to succeed.
“You’re being a pathetic little weakling, that’s why. I have respect for you, and I don’t like to see you debasing yourself,” Danielle said.
“I dare you to do it, Danielle,” I said, and before she could respond, “If you’re really a sociopath, you’re totally wimping out. I don’t like to see you debasing yourself, my ass!”
“It’s different when you’re telling me to do it, you know. And you realize that if I do this, there’s no going back. After it happens, it will have happened, and things will be different between us forever. Between you and Kurt.”
“I. DARE. YOU.”
Danielle threw her arms up and rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll do it. You won’t know when it’ll happen. It might be tonight, tomorrow, next month or next year, but it will happen, and he will be mine, there will be no going back and there will be nothing you can do about it,” she said, with an uncharacteristic level of exasperation in her voice.
“Hey, I just want you to see if you can seduce him, because I know you can’t. I’m not, like, outright giving him to you or anything,” I said, backpedaling a little bit.
“Are you taking back your dare, then?” Danielle asked. Before I could consider reconsidering, she smiled and added, “I’ll make sure you can watch.”
She had me.
I didn’t take back my dare.
2.
A year later, Danielle had her fun messing with our department and moved on to some investment firm. We still kept in touch, meeting for breakfast Saturday mornings.
While I’d forgotten about the dare, it seems our conversation about her sociopathy had caused her to seek out a psychiatrist. I don’t what for, since she clearly had no desire to “change”. She was still stealing hearts, breaking hearts and tearing people down. She hadn’t slowed down at all and seemed almost as interested in the psychiatrist as she did the people she was screwing with at her new job.
Danielle had made it her goal to sleep with the psychiatrist, who was apparently a blond woman in her early ‘30’s, but she was taking it very, very slowly. She said the psychiatrist was sexy, yet Danielle was also adamant that she was firmly heterosexual. Not lesbian, not bisexual, not even “defying labels” (whatever that means) but hot damn did Danielle want to sleep with her. I didn’t understand her sometimes.
Without Danielle to stir things up, my job had become boring monotony.
I was half-considering asking Danielle if her investment firm needed a graphic designer.
I’d go to work, robotically photoshop my way through my day until I made it home at 5:30pm, and start dinner which would be ready when Kurt got home around 7pm. We’d eat, maybe watch a movie, occasionally make love, go to bed and the cycle repeats.
Complacent modern life.
I think hearing Danielle’s stories on Saturday morning was probably the highlight of my week. By then, I think I understood while I liked Danielle: She wasn’t boring. Sure, she was a jerk (except to me), but it’s the jerks that make things interesting. What would Jaws be without the shark? A Nightmare on Elm Street without Freddy? Star Wars without Darth Vader?
Maybe her point of view was infecting me.
Boring humans.
One night, Kurt came home, kissed me straight away and didn’t stop. I thought I smelled something familiar, but lost the train of thought when I realized I could feel his erection pressing against me through his pants. The pressure of his manhood became more pronounced when he grabbed my butt with both cheeks, pressing me against him.
“Oh! What’s gotten into yo—” he cut me off with another kiss and I felt his hand underneath my skirt and between my legs, feeling my already growing wetness. I gasped as he started fingering me, pushing me backwards until my knees buckled. I fell backwards onto the couch.
Before I could even register what was going on around me, Kurt had dropped trou, his rock hard cock swinging freely in the air with a glistening dab of precum on the tip, and towered over me.
“I just need to fuck,” he said in a guttural growl. The unmistakable hunger in his voice turned me on, but I had no response.
“Okay,” I whispered hoarsely.
I let him use me like a doll. Kurt positioned himself on top of me and started thrusting. My heart was pounding in my chest almost as much as Kurt’s cock was pounding in my pussy. That spontaneity, the animal need, it was as if he was possessed.
I was already close to orgasm as his thrusts sped into a staccato rhythm. I could tell he was almost on the edge, fucking with all his might to fly off that edge with the force of a bull in full charge. His ferocity drove me over, and I came with a loud moan, pushing him over.
He collapsed on top of me.
“Soooo…. Dinner is ready,” I told him with a smile.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, panting.
“For what did I earn the pleasure?”
“Huh?” he asked, getting up.
“You just walked through the door and—SEX! SEX!” I responded.
“I don’t know. I just… was thinking of you?” he said, half joking.
“Well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
It was like somebody flicked a switch turning his passion up to eleven. Every night after that, he came home and fucked me like some determined stallion nearly the second he walked through the door, and I found myself playing the part of the mare in heat almost literally: I was anticipating it.
Sure, I’d start making dinner like any evening before that special day, but I’d be making it thinking about what was going to happen when Kurt walked through the front door. The way he’d be drawn to me, rip off my clothes, and have me however he wanted…. It was hard not to touch myself while I was making dinner, and by the time he actually came through the door, I was practically ready to cum right then and there.
It was almost like some sort of unintentional Pavlovian training.
Ring the bell (start making dinner), and I’d start “salivating” in “hunger”.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, our sex life was amazing… until it wasn’t. It had gone on like that, night after night, for I don’t know how long, but one day it was over. Just like that.
I was finishing up dinner, and my panties were more or less soaked.
Kurt walked through the door, casually, put his coat on the rack and plomped himself down on the couch.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Something probably happened, so I was probably supposed to be the concerned wifey, but I’d spent the past hour and a half habitually playing the sex-started harlot and found it shockingly difficult to shift gears.
I tried to do both, awkwardly.
Wrapping my arms around him from behind, I whispered into his ear, “Everything okay, loverboy?”
Kurt leaned back, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and sighed.
“Fuck work. Whatever happened to the days when you could just win the lottery?” Kurt lamented.
“I don’t think those days were ever there,” I said dryly, realizing there was no turning this ship around. Part of me wanted to point out that we could live off of just what I made, but I knew he’d never go for it and kept my mouth shut.
He was like this the next night, and the next.
This became our new norm.
Apparently, Kurt’s job was literally sapping the soul from him, like some sort of demon. Considering it seemed to take his sex drive, perhaps that demon was a succubus. It never occurred to me that he might be cheating, because, well, it was still Kurt, but it did leave me with a serious problem.
The weirdly sexualized act of making dinner never quite stopped being weirdly sexualized. I still found myself thinking of how things were not so long ago, and by the time I was done was nearly shaking with lust, night after night. Perhaps it was all the rough sex we’d had, but I was finding it nearly impossible to get myself off afterword, despite the fact that I felt so turned on you should pretty much be able to blow on me to make me cum.
I went a whole month without an orgasm, yet horny as hell the whole time. I was distracted at work and even Danielle seemed to notice that I was on edge.
Her concern was unusual.
She offered to “help”, but I turned her down. I’m not sure if she planned to hook me up or talk me into a distinctly non-lesbian girl-on-girl encounter, perhaps with her psychiatrist.
It was getting hard to not at least humor her.
One evening, I’d gotten home, and was about to make dinner. I’d begun to dread it—I’d find myself getting hopelessly turned on, only to get no real release. I think I was at the point where I could cheat—forget having Kurt do it.
I’d fuck just about anything.
The mailman?
The fridge I was standing in front of?
I might have contemplated some absurd way to make that work (if only in my imagination), but was distracted by a note:
“Hide in the closet at 7pm for a special treat! – Danielle
P.S. You can still make dinner first. I hear you like that. :)”
What the hell?
I felt a little angry… and a little excited. I’d already forgotten my dare entirely, but somehow I think I still had an inkling of what might happen.
I made dinner.
Eagerly.
3.
I opened my bedroom closet and found another note in Danielle’s notoriously girly handwriting:
“Right here! Close the door!”
A squeal came from the front door… Kurt was home!
Trying to be as quick and quiet as possible, I slid myself into the closet and shut the sliding door. It was the kind with a bunch of horizontal slats, giving me a perfect view of the entire bedroom.
“I smell food, I think Beth is here,” I heard Kurt whispering to someone, concerned.
“Sssh, she’s not,” I heard Danielle’s familiar voice say, “I’ve made sure of that. C’mon!”
“Dani, I really—gwuh,” Kurt let out a strange questioning noise as (I imagined) Danielle surprised him by yanking his arm.
Setting Up My Husband Page 1
