Chapter Text
Nobody warned you how lonely and miserable the life of a housewife can be. Your mother had been an unmarried woman. Against all odds, she managed to claw herself and her children into the middle class. Following the death of your father, she worked as hard as possible to give you and your siblings a good life. After the War broke out, she became a Rosie, and when temporary peace washed over the Earth, she met someone and fell in love. They were still happily married, the devotion your stepfather showed your Mama skewing your perception of love. Your father had worshipped her, too, so seeing another man do the same made you think it was a natural thing all men did for their women.
How wrong you'd been.
You always wanted to have great love like your mother had. When your husband came along, it seemed like a prayer had been answered. Sparks immediately flew. He was the total package, a strong, handsome young man with charisma and money.
However, four years into marriage, you'd long ago realized that you'd been bamboozled. He dealt with his trauma with liquor, refused to clean up after himself, worked constantly, and worst of all, shamed you for your 'dysfunctional womb.'
Four years of marriage, and you had yet to get pregnant, the result of many arguments. The degrading words he threw your way crushed you. Leaving had crossed your mind more than once, but you'd never known anything else. He'd met you in your senior year, and y'all married months after you graduated high school. You went from your Mama's house to his, with no life experience in between.
You regretted that so much. If you'd lived a little more before walking down the aisle, the thought of supporting yourself wouldn't be so petrifying. And perhaps, you wouldn't fear the judgment of being deemed a failure, a woman who wasn't good enough at being a wife. The oppressive gender roles broken during the War had returned in full force, so you knew you'd be looked down upon if you left.
How unfortunate. You were terrified of people's opinions and lacked the skills or experience to defy negative expectations. Maybe, you were nothing but a pretty face, just like Henry always told you.
"Did you hear me?" Henry said as you stared blankly at your dinner plate.
You snapped your head in his direction, and to appear that you hadn't been zoning off, took a sip of your orange juice. It was a breakfast drink, but it went well with the sweet and sour chicken breast.
Though you hadn't heard a word he said, you nodded. "Of course, dear."
He returned home all worked up and responded to your inquiries about his day by shoving you to the ground. Lately, he'd been getting more and more physical, and you feared it may escalate to him hitting you.
"No, you didn't," he grumbled, narrowing his hazel eyes at you. "I'm going out with the guys tonight, and I'll be home late tomorrow. Don't wait up."
You nodded, sagging in relief. He'd been staying out longer, and the scent of floral perfume that started to cling to him made you suspicious. And yet, you couldn't help but be relieved that he wasn't around to degrade you, to critique the meals he couldn't possibly make, or judge the housework he refused to do. Nowadays, the best you could hope for with him is a good orgasm, and considering he was a selfish lover, that was also rare.
“Yes, dear,” you said, almost robotically. “Be careful.”
The rest of dinner was eaten in silence, and once he was done, he just stood and walked to the foyer. The slamming of the front door rang throughout the house, and moments later, you heard his vehicle roar to life. The sound gradually faded, leaving you to stew in your thoughts.
******
Whenever Henry was drunk, he was especially amorous. You received kisses with a passion he long ago stopped having, and initiated intimacy you thought he was no longer interested in. Yet just because he wanted you to wet his cock, doesn’t mean he became the sweet, loving man you feel in love with.
Take now, for instance.
He’d returned home from whatever pub his friends had dragged him to staggering, calling out your name despite it being nearly 3 AM. He’d been horny and decided to wake you to satiate himself. He was rough, and a minute of fingering was all the prep you got, not even giving you enough time to get aroused. He hadn’t even taken time to undress you, just flipping you onto your stomach and raising your nightgown. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and you cried out as his fingers painfully dug into your waist.
"Shut up," he grunted, hips never slowing.
You bit your lip to muffle yourself, closing your eyes as he continued to pump into you. His grunts and growls were the only noises he made. When you gifted him your virginity, he made you fall in love with sex. He talked you through it, put your pleasure first, and made the entire experience awfully intimate. Then, lovemaking had just been that, a special bond between you and him that was a physical manifestation of love. Now, you’d become a Fleshlight, not even important enough to be granted permission to make sounds.
In moments like this, you truly questioned your sanity. Why the hell were you still with him, letting him use your body, while his words left you feeling insecure and miserable? Why couldn’t you stop clinging to the past, and accept that he no longer cared about you? He didn’t see you as a wife, but as a maid, cook, and fucktoy.
When had he stopped loving you?
Had he ever?
It was a question you asked yourself often, and each time the thought crossed your mind, a pang of heart went through you. Yet, beyond all reason, you hoped to repair this broken marriage, to return to that honeymoon phase. Mama was still happy with your stepfather, even after years had passed. She always had a smile on her face, a glow that wasn’t present in your childhood.
Could Henry ever make you feel that way again? Or was your dream of a happy ever after nothing more than an impossible fantasy?
Henry came without warning, a grunt being the only sign of his completion. The feel of his cum filling you up ripped you out of your thoughts. You gasped once he pulled out, his seed oozing from your entrance and dribbling down your thigh. You lay there for some moments, struggling to catch your breath. You just wanted to go back to sleep—you were sore and tired—but Henry had made a mess of you. So, once breath had returned to your lungs, you went to the bathroom to clean up.
You used a damp cloth to wash his cum away and scooped as much as possible out of your cunt. You didn’t know if a baby would make the situation better, or if a child would make you tied to your bastard of a husband for life.
Once you were finished cleaning up, you went back to bed. Henry was already out cold, snoring loudly. You crawled under the covers, and wanting some comfort, you tried to get his arm to wrap around you. But even when asleep, he rejected you. Instead of granting you cuddles, he pushed you away and turned his back to you, the unconscious reaction hurting you more than it should. When you laid down, you were sure that your back faced him, too, not that it did much good to ease your ache. By the time you finally fell asleep, your tears stained the pillowcase.
******
There was a new milkman in town. Francis, his nametag declared him. He has a handsome fellow, dark hair and eyes, a muscular frame, and slightly tanned skin. He wore his uniform well, and not even the heavy bags under his eyes or the frown on his face took away from his handsomeness.
It was pathetic, but in the month he’d been servicing your area, his presence had become a pick-me-up. Few words were ever exchanged, but he was eye candy, and you’d caught his eyes roaming over your curves when you wore something particularly tight or revealing. You tried to be an ideal 1950s woman, so you never sported anything too scandalous. Yet, on days you were expecting a milk delivery, you tried to look a little nicer, maybe wear a dress that was a tad bit shorter.
Today was one such day. Your husband had left for work, leaving you all alone in the house. Naturally, that meant once housework was complete, you traded your cleaning clothes for a cute dress that did wonders for your figures. You nearly tripped over yourself to get to the door when the doorbell rang, and before you opened it, you ran your hands over your dress to smooth any creases.
On your porch stood Francis, his usual tired frown on his face. You wondered if he was sleep-deprived, or if his job was so tedious that he stayed exhausted, regardless of his sleep schedule.
"Hello, Francis," you greeted, a smile stretched across your lips. "How are you today?"
"Fine," he mumbled, his eyes darting away from yours and to the milk crate. "Counter?"
"Sure," you said, trying not to let his gruff behavior affect you.
Every day, he said the bare minimum, speaking to you in short sentences, and not looking at you as he did so. Yet, you still sought his attention, while knowing his interest in you was minimal, if it even existed. You were just... so damn lonely, enough so to get attached to the handsome milkman who frequented your neighborhood.
How sad. Your past self would weep to know the woman she'd become.
Your smile was less genuine when you stepped aside to let Francis into the house.
He was quick to enter, and after putting his crate of milk down on the counter, he left with a mumbled goodbye. The front door slammed shut before you could even reach the foyer, leaving you alone in the kitchen.
That was how a typical interaction between you and him went, and yet, each time left you a little more disappointed.
In a moment of self-contempt, you grabbed one of the milk bottles and threw it to the ground. For a split second, the glass hitting the floor flooded you with satisfaction. However, knowing you’d have to clean that robbed it, and made you want to cry. You stared at the mess as your gaze grew misty, before you swiped at your eyes, and went to get the cleaning supplies.
******
You’d long suspected your husband was cheating on you, and now, you had tangible proof in your hands. It was laundry day, and for the first batch, you intended to wash the button-up Henry wore out last night. Except, you found a lipstick stain on his crème shirt, the shade one you’d never wear. It’d derailed your plans, and despite his awful treatment, your eyes watered. Suspecting something and having it confirmed were two different things.
When you reached into the pockets of his pants and found a slip of paper with a number and hearts on it, it felt like a piece of your soul was destroyed.
Henry was an asshole, plain and simple. You’d known that when he started calling you cruel names, finding issues with the smallest details of your appearance, stopped caring about your sexual pleasure, and the list went on. Yet, he was an asshole that provide you with a lavish life, one you used to dream of, one that was almost impossible for a woman of your background. Moreover, he was the only man you’ve ever been with, all you’ve known since you left the safety of your mother’s house.
Before you knew it, your face was wet with tears, the waterworks opening due to sadness and anger.
You threw the pants aside and resisted the urge to tear up the piece of paper. Instead, you took deep breaths, then stalked to your closet. Your home had two closets in the master bedroom, and Henry never entered yours anymore. So, he wouldn’t know that you had proof of his cheating stored away, in an empty shoebox you’d been meaning to throw away.
Thank God you hadn’t.
Through your grief, you knew you needed to formulate a proper plan. Henry gave you an allowance, the amount he gave you depending on how ‘good of a wife’ you’d been. Most of the time, it wasn’t enough for anything more than a new dress and shoes. You were quick to treat yourself with the money, a little reward for all your hard work. But now, you’d need to save that money. He’d just given you some cash yesterday, that you had yet to spend. And now, you wouldn’t. Instead, you’d store it away until it accumulated to a sizeable amount. Within a few months, you could afford a decent apartment in a safe area, then look for an entry-level position.
The very thought filled you with dread, but you knew you couldn’t stay with Henry much longer. He was a cheater and growing increasingly vile. You feared it was only a matter of time before he began to beat you, and now, you wondered how long it would be until he replaced you.
You wondered if his next wife would be a young girl fresh out of high school, too dumb to see all the red flags.
Just as you stored the box back in its original place, the doorbell rang. You weren’t expecting any visitors, making your brows furrowed. Until you realized you were expecting someone, Francis. Typically, you’d feel giddy at receiving a milk delivery, just due to the handsome man bringing it. Now, you only felt dread. You looked a mess, and you didn’t feel like socializing with anyone, even for a moment.
You wondered if that’s how Francis felt when he dealt with customers. If so, you had a lot more sympathy regarding his abrasive attitude.
You grabbed a tissue and dabbed your eyes, then hurried to the front door. Plastering on your usual smile, you flung it open, making Francis pause in his retreat.
“Oh,” he said, turning around to jog back up the porch. “Didn’t think you were home.”
“I was just doing laundry,” you replied, cringing as your voice cracked.
Francis froze, leaving the insulated box on the front stoop open. You cleared your throat as he cocked a brow.
“Everything okay?” he asked, keeping an eye on you as he grabbed the milk crate.
No.
“Yeah, just allergies.” You stepped aside so he could bring the milk to the kitchen. “I’m so very sensitive to the weather.”
“Right,” he said, his tone indicating that he didn’t believe you. Fortunately, he didn’t push the issue as he entered. “My ma used to fix me peppermint and ginger tea for colds and allergies. Did wonders for me.”
The suggestion brought a real smile—albeit small—to your face. It was kind to offer solutions to your fake problem, and it was one of the longest sentences he’d spoken to you.
“Really? I’ll have to try it.”
“Do that. I still drink it from time to time.”
You nodded and watched as he set the crate down on the counter. Instead of leaving immediately, he scanned you over, slowly dragging his gaze up your body. By the time he got to your face, your cheeks were hot, and your heart rate quickening.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, leaning against the cabinets.
“Positive,” you reiterated, having enough sense not to share your woes with the milkman. “Let me walk you to the door.”
His stare lingered, before he nodded, trailing behind you as he was escorted to the foyer. You could feel his eyes burning holes into you, yet neither one of you spoke. When you opened the door for him, you forced your smile to remain.
“Goodbye, ma’am,” he said, and with a tip of his hat, he was returning to his truck.
Ma’am?
That was new.
You liked it.