panties drop left and right.
one amazing night out and end it.
with a baseball bat and kicking him to the curb.
of college, blows back into town with all the intensity of a
hurricane, I decide I’m not done.
ex-husband is not. Sexy, aggressive, and intense.
mean, FULLY grown.
out with him, but one taste and I’m addicted.
her right then and there.
one night too short for all the dirty things I want to do to her and
that deliciously curvy body.
cliffhangers, and definitely a wonderful Happily Ever After
I had no clue what I’d do.
It’s the kind of situation you never plan for, never expect to have to plan for. And even if you try, even if you think you know what you’ll do or how you’ll act, you find out that the truth is:
You really don’t know yourself at all.
I wait, sitting in that old ratty armchair of his. The orange one that was now stained brown. The one he refused to throw out no
matter how much it reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.
The pictures are still on the coffee table. I looked them over carefully, in some twisted morbid curiosity. The girl couldn’t be a day over 18 and she seemed to be enjoying herself, but in some fake, exaggerated way like she was in a porn video or she learned
how to act when getting fucked from a porn video. And of course, it was missionary, the boring bastard.
I’m not thinking about anything, not planning, not scheming. I’m not even angry.
For the first time in a long while, my head is completely clear. Like some weird meditation, all I do is sit and wait.
He strolls through the front door, whistling a tune. The balls on him. Relaxed and casual, as if he didn’t just come back from fucking his teenage whore.
He looks at me once but doesn’t look twice. Even though, across my lap is a silver aluminum baseball bat. The same bat that
we’ve kept by the front door for our protection, for just in case.
Just in case of a robbery. Just in case of a home invasion. Just in case my scumbag husband decides to cheat on me.
All those years, it sat unused. Until today.
I don’t know what was the last straw. The whistling, the nonchalant way he ignored me or maybe it was that shit-eating grin he had
plastered on his smug face.
But one second I’m sitting in the living room and the next, I’m tackling him like a football linebacker. Head down, shoulders
square, straight into his unsuspecting back.
He pitches forward, quite comically, crashing to the ground in a heap. All accompanied by a satisfactory crunch.
And as I stood over him, something dark and violent emerged, something that wasn’t so clean and pure. Something that I kept
buried and hidden for years as the perfect housewife, the perfect stay at home mom.
The funny thing is, he didn’t think I would do it. The whole time, the asshole looked up at me and just laughed, smirking in my face. That is, until the first swing of the bat came down on him.
And goddamn, if it didn’t feel amazing.
For me. Not for him.
I can still picture that deliciously depraved moment when that cheesy smile of his gave way to a look of pain and confusion.
Ohhh, god! This was it! That utterly satisfying feeling.
Like the good fuck he was never able to give me.
As I kept raining down blow after blow, his disbelief quickly turned into one of horror, crying for me to stop. But I didn’t. It only added to my wonderful, cathartic experience. And I savored every single
wince, every little whimper, feeding off his pain.
Finally, he could feel what I felt. All the abuse, all the suffocating agony from living under his oppressive rule. Finally, I could
give it all back to him.
Let me give you a piece of advice: it’s unhealthy to repress that much shit. So don’t. Unless one day, you might end up beating
your douchebag husband half to death. After a good solid minute of getting his ass beat, he finally snatches an opportunity to
escape. As I take a breather, he scrambles towards the front door, running out onto the lawn.
But he doesn’t get far.
He’s not getting away. Not today.
Cause right now, there’s a fucking animal inside me.
I chase him down and knocking him to the grass, continuing my assault with the bat.
I can’t seem to stop myself. Not that I want to.
One part of me is filled with wrathful vengeance and the other looks on a spectator, as if I’m watching a horror movie.
I really like horror movies.
Suddenly, big fat hair y arms wrap around my waist, pulling me away from Donald.
Donald my husband: The liar. The cheater. The piece of shit.
God, I fucking hate him.
Wrapped up in those thick arms, I struggle helplessly, flailing like a bug on it’s back. The man who’s gathered me up in a massive bearhug is Robert Carter, our nextdoor neighbor, with his wife Patty kneeling next to the crying Donald.
Crying. Literally. Big crocodile tears.
What a disgusting faker, trying to squeeze sympathy out of our neighbors.
I didn’t hit him all that hard. I think.
that oh so important warm sentimental love.
and I thought I’d share them with all of you!
fantasies: impossibly sexy, crazy dominant, and 110% guaranteed to
make your knees weak.
the door (along with your panties) because my books will make you
melt and squirm with HEA love!
life that I can microwave them for ten seconds to make them chewy
again. I don’t hate on crunchy, though. Cookies are cookies lol.
things can get incredibly dangerous! (That’s a joke for all you
stuffy wet blankets. I would never risk my patients. I love them!)
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