The Bitch 3.6/5 (8)

A portrait of the bitch, the few things he is useful for and the many things he is not.

Mary pushed the baby in his hands, laughing.

“You take care of it tonight Peter. I’m going out tonight.”

He bounced little Sarah carefully in his arms. He looked at his girlfriend’s laughing eyes above her twisted smile.

“Why, where are you going?” he asked, trying to sound stern, but his voice rising into a high-pitched whine instead.

Her grin broadened.

“I’m going out with Tom tonight if he finishes in time. If not with, the girls,” and she winked at him then burst out laughing again at the look on his face. Her laugh was one of cruel howls, each one a shewolf’s bite on his heart.

He loved her and they both knew this. He was her slave.

“Well it’s only six,” he said, switching tactics. “Stay for a bit, I’ll cook you dinner!”

“Would you.” She said it so deadpan, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that he would cook whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.

She didn’t even bother to look at his pleading eyes, but pulled out her phone again. She checked a text.

“No,” she said, firmly. “I’ve got lots planned.”

With the decision final, she walked off to take her shower and begin her lengthy preparations for the night.

The bitch cradled the baby and rocked her gently to sleep. The bitch was good with the baby, it was one of his uses, if not his main use, to Mary and thus his main purpose in life.

He could not say he loved Sarah, though he was fond of her. It was hard to look at her darker skin and know that it was not his that he spent his life looking after. Harder now that he knew he was being used.

He had met Mary on Tinder three months ago. She had been open about being a single Mum, with a new-born child. Peter had not minded. She wasn’t so in to him. But she soon found him more and more obliging. So obliging that she had her life back. She no longer had to rely on her Mother or daycare for making work.

But he had shortcomings and anyway, did not thrill her. She stayed out. It was only then she realised how obliging he was. Like a doormat. And how head-over heels in love he was.

Things had deteriorated from there.

Now he placed the baby sleeping in the cradle. He began to work in the kitchen. He began chopping onions, garlic, ginger, to cook stock. He fetched a wine out from the cabinet that might go well with a stew.

He could hear her shower end, the pitter-patter of the feet. He turned the heat up in a bid to waft the scents through the house, but the bedroom door slammed shut.

He knew now he had to work fast. Still he set the table lovingly. He fetched the best candlebra, and lit seven tall candlesticks. He set the stew, the potatoes and the entrees delicately around. He popped the wine and filled two crystal glasses.

He had to stop once to feed the baby when it woke, but it drifted off at once.

He laid the flowerpot in the middle just as the door creaked open. It would be his last shot.

He turned to face her.

She had never looked more gorgeous to him. And it was true, she had worked wonders.

The blonde hair was held high above her pale forehead. The face was shocking in its mirthless beauty, her dark eyes arresting. The dress clung to the curves of her full breasts swelled by Motherhood, the slim body beneath and round the thick tips of the thighs. There it stopped short and her full white thighs ran down to the painted toes on strapped high-heeled platforms.

She swung the handbag in her crossed arms. “What the fuck is this?” she said. She tilted her hips and placed her hands on them.

Peter’s stunned grin faltered. “I just thought I might convince you to stay for something to eat first,” he said.

The fury in her stare made him drop his smile completely.

“So you broke out the best wine, used all my ingredients and best tableware for this? When I specifically told you I was going out?” Her voice had risen to a shout that shook Peter.

“Honey…”

“No!” She flicked one hand up and snapped her fingers. “You better put this all away and start learning how to eat bread and crackers for a while. Because the cost for all this is coming out of your money. And you can forget about using the car or buses for a while.”

Peter felt like he was drowning. It was the first time she had referred to the money as “hers.” When he had moved into her apartment there had been a mutual but unspoken agreement that she would continue her successful marketing career while he took care of domestics. He had quit his job to this end.

“Please…” he heard himself say.

“And you better believe I’m bringing him back tonight.”

Peter was too stunned to initially say anything. The sleeping around had been all but actually identified, another agreement he had thought was unspokenly assumed. Now she was threatening to shove it in his face.

She whirled round and had stormed as far as the door before he spoke.

“Please don’t, baby!” he yelled, actually bringing his hands together in a pleading motion.

She stopped, watching him. The fury still blazed in her eyes, but now with a hint of joyful triumph in them.

“I’ll accept any other punishment, sweety,” he said. The word punishment tasted dry in his throat.

She paused, calculating. She put her hands back on her hips, slowly.

“Okay,” she said. “Beg me to punish you. Beg me not to fuck him in our apartment.”

He swallowed. She looked so lovely to him. He didn’t want her to leave angry. “Please…” he almost whispered.

“What?” she said.

“Please,” he said, a little louder. “Please don’t… Don’t fuck him in our apartment.”

“You call that begging? HA.” She whirled around to leave again.

“Please, please, Mary!” he called. He had dropped to his knees so swiftly he did not know what he was doing. His hands were together and he begged her. “Please punish me. Please don’t fuck him, please don’t fuck him here. I love you.”

Again Mary had to pause watching him. His subjugation knew no bounds.

The bitch was without dignity.

Mary walked slowly from the door to where he was kneeling at the table, her heels clicking against the wooden floor.

She looked down at him. His eyes fell from her stern gaze down over her lovely figure to her pedicured feet.

“Say his name,” she said.

He looked up at her. “Tom,” he said and his eyes fell to the floor.

She let a silence elapse cruelly between them. He was waiting for permission to rise.

“Your punishment,” she finally said, “is that you will be right there kneeling at the door when I get back. Do you understand? Do what you need to do, to get Sarah in bed, if she wakes, see to her. Get all this put by and skip dinner yourself. But when I return. You had better be right there at the door.”

She paused again. Peter could feel his heart sinking, but there was gratitude there too that she had accepted his plea.

“Do you understand?” she said, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” he said.

“Look up at me when you say it. Do you understand?”

He forced himself to look up at her. He loved her so much.

“Yes Mary, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” she said. Then she patted his head quickly and left, the door clicking shut behind her. Peter did not move as he heard the heels clicking down the stairwell.

When she returned at five am, he had been kneeling straight for six hours.

He had drifted, but could catch no sleep in this position.

He had put everything by, debated with himself furiously about where she might be and when she might come back. He had to fight off the urge to call or text her. Right at the beginning of their relationship, she had had to ward him off calling her too much.

All this was in many ways new. Never had she commanded him quite like this. Never had his subjection to her been quite so total. He was truly her slave.

Mary was thrilled. It had been a great night out and she felt she had truly reclaimed her life with the subjugation of Peter.

She was drunk when she arrived back, her heels in on hand.

“Peee-eeter!” she called, giggling when she had almost tripped over him on entry. “I had forgotten you were there!”

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