Home at Last

Story Info
Jilted BBW wife finds love in an unexpected place.
11.8k words
4.75
161.5k
91
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
drlust
drlust
135 Followers

"Thin" isn't a word anyone has ever used to describe me. "Beautiful" isn't either. But "sexy"? Well, that's another story.

It's funny how long it takes us to come to a realization of who we really are. For me, it took just over 40 years. My whole life I'd struggled with the weight of my own expectations—always wanting to be fifteen or twenty pounds lighter, to have better cheekbones, to have my hair be a better color or my complexion a little better.

Measured against my friends, I was just plain. "Really nice" was the most common way I heard people describe me in high school. I didn't want to be "nice," I wanted to be desirable the way my friends Claudia or Michelle were. Boys dripped off them. Me they hardly noticed.

College wasn't much better. I did manage to find a couple of boyfriends my first few years in school, but neither of them really excited me. Sure, we had fun and the sex wasn't bad, but to me it always seemed that my girlfriends had their pick of the good looking and interesting guys while I settled for what I could get.

During my senior year I started dating a grad student named Paul and thought I'd found true love at last. Paul said he loved me for who I was and for years I think he meant it. We were very happy together and got married shortly after he finished his MBA. We bought a nice house in the suburbs and within seven years we had three children, Jillian, Mark, and Alison.

I'd planned on a career when I went to college, but instead my life submerged into the joy of my children. I was a mother and a damned good one, volunteering in their schools, shuttling back and forth to sports, dance classes, movies, birthday parties and everything else on a modern child's social calendar.

Unfortunately, each pregnancy also added another five pounds that just wouldn't go away. Paul didn't seem to mind and if sex became more infrequent, it was still satisfying. He knew my body so well, teasing me when I wanted teasing, touching me in just the right ways. And I tried to repay him in kind, doing the things he told me he loved. I was especially proud of the way my blowjobs could turn him into a quivering mass of jelly.

The first hint of trouble began on my 38th birthday. Among the presents Paul bought me was a vibrator, the first we'd ever owned. It was big, bigger than his cock, and purple. He gave it to me in our bedroom that night after the kids were in bed, pulling it out from under his pillow with a look of triumph in his eyes.

"I got a little something else for you baby," he said.

Opening the package, which I crazily thought might have been something really romantic like tickets to the islands or a necklace, I know my face showed a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"I...well, I thought it would be fun. That you'd like it," he stammered, seeing that I hadn't gone all giddy on him upon seeing a big purple penis in the box.

"Oh, uh, sure," I said, recovering. Then I hugged him and said, "Thanks sweetie."

He smiled then, thinking the moment had passed. "Let's try it out then."

So we did. I had to admit, I did have a very strong orgasm that night, one that was concentrated almost entirely on my clit rather than spreading out through my entire body the way my orgasms usually did. But it felt hollow. For the first time in our married life, it was as though sex that night was something Paul did to me instead of something we shared together. I tried to put those thoughts out of my mind, but found that I couldn't. For weeks I kept asking myself if this was one of those turning points you read about.

A few months later, he came home with another present for me. This time it was some very sexy lingerie from Victoria's Secret—a bustier, garter belt and thong, all very red. To his credit, he'd actually picked the right sizes, God only knows how. I wore them for him that night and was pleased to see how turned on he got, but I felt silly wearing it all. Those sorts of undies were really designed for women a lot thinner than me. And as I listened to his breathing shift over to snoring next to me I couldn't help but wonder if he was dissatisfied with our sex life. We hadn't needed vibrators or bustiers six months ago.

The next morning I surveyed my body in the bathroom mirror and for about the one hundred and thirty-seventh time vowed to lose weight, to get sexier for my husband. And then for reasons I couldn't put my finger on at the time, I started to cry. I had to rest my hands on the sink to keep from falling and for a good five minutes an anguish I couldn't identify overwhelmed me. Now, of course, I know it was a premonition of what was to come, that I was blocking the reality of my situation, but at the time it just confused me.

My weight loss plan worked—sort of. I managed to drop eight pounds over two months, which for me was a big success. But did Paul notice? Of course not. In fact, he started staying at work later than he had for years. When I asked about it, he put me off by pointing out that his company had been restructuring lately and it was really important to put in the extra hours to avoid being included in the layoffs and buyouts. I believed him, but not entirely. Paul's job had always seemed very secure before. Why the worries now?

And then it happened, the way those anvils used to drop on cartoon character's heads. It was never entirely out of the blue, because they knew the anvil was up there, but still a surprise because who would expect the anvil to actually land on your head?

A couple of girlfriends of mine and I had pooled our resources and hired two babysitters to watch those of our kids who still needed a sitter and had gone to the movies. It was a chick flick and we knew our husbands wouldn't want to go, so we were having a girl's night out. We'd had to go all the way across town to find a theater that was still showing our movie and afterward we stopped in a bar near where we'd parked for a margarita. The place was dark but festive, the sort of bar adults go to when they want to have fun, but not too much fun.

No sooner had our drinks arrived than I saw him. Paul was sitting in a booth at the back of the bar with a woman, the two of them on the same side of the booth, bodies pressed together, half empty beers in front of them. For just a second I thought crazily that there must be other people in the booth who I couldn't see, that they were part of a group. But of course they weren't. As I stared stupidly at them, Paul's hand reached up to cradle the woman's head, pulling her face toward his and they kissed. Not the tentative kiss of a first date, but the easy familiarity of lovers.

I felt my margarita surging up from my stomach. I clapped one hand over my mouth, grabbed my purse with the other and without answering the worried questions of my friends, I bolted from our table to the parking lot, where I wretched between two cars, thankful that the streetlights hadn't come on yet. Cindy, my best friend found me there, wiping the vomit from the corners of my mouth with a used Kleenex I'd located in my purse.

"Megan," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Not really," I said.

"Do you think it's food poisoning?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, what then?" she pressed.

I turned then to face her and she stepped back from me. I realized that my face must be betraying the rage I felt. "Look," I said, trying to calm down. "I've got to go. But I need you to do me a favor first." I grabbed some money from my wallet and pushed it into her hands. "Go inside, give Marny this for the bill and then bring me a pack of matches from the bar."

"Matches?" she asked. "But why?"

"Just do it for me, okay?" My voice was fierce now. Cindy nodded and walked quickly back into the bar. When she returned a couple of minutes later, I saw that she had a pack of matches. Two, in fact.

"Thanks Cindy," I said. "I've got to go now. Can you get a ride with the others?"

"Sure, but don't you want me to ride with you. Something's wrong Megan. Won't you tell me what it is so I can help?"

For a second or two I considered telling her what I'd seen in the bar, but it was too humiliating. I knew they might see Paul on their own, but I couldn't be the one to tell them what was happening. I just couldn't. So I shook my head and tried to smile at her to let her know I'd be fine. "No. I'm fine. Really. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," she said, then gathered me into her arms and hugged me. It took all of my willpower to keep from dissolving into tears at that moment but the rage I felt toward Paul held me together.

On the drive home, I gripped the wheel so tightly my fingers began to hurt. What to do? What to do? I could see it all now, of course. The vibrator and the lingerie were his clumsy attempts to recreate in our bedroom the excitement of his new lover's embraces. From what I'd seen of her, she was everything I wasn't—young, thin, blonde, beautiful. She didn't look a day over 25 and was probably a wildcat in bed.

Home at last, I sat in the car for a good fifteen minutes composing myself in case either of my two oldest children was home. My youngest was staying with Cindy's son for a sleepover after the babysitter departed, so I didn't have to worry about her. Once I decided I looked okay, I went inside, only to find both of the older kids still out at their friends' houses. Sometimes it's a good thing to have independent teenagers. I left them a note saying I wasn't feeling well and had gone to bed early.

Upstairs, I tossed the packs of matches on Paul's pillow, then went to our bathroom, took some of my essentials from the cabinet, grabbed a sleeping shirt from the dresser and went to the guest room, where I sat in my grandmother's rocking chair and waited.

About an hour later, I heard Paul come home. "Honey?" he called. I sure as hell wasn't going to answer. I knew he'd find my note to the kids and I hoped he'd take that as his cue to leave me alone. Unfortunately, he didn't. Instead, I heard him clomp up the stairs and then go down the hall to our bedroom. For several minutes he didn't move. He'd obviously seen the matches I left for him. Then he came my way. Looking back on that moment, I'm still impressed with how calm I was in the face of disaster. Maybe being a mother does that for you.

"Megan," he called softly through the door.

"It's open," I said, my voice firm.

The door creaked open and Paul stepped in. I could see in his face that he knew he was in the deep shit. He's never been good at hiding his fear and the realization that he was terrified gave me strength.

"I, uh..."

I shook my head, my eyes never leaving his. "No," I said. "I saw you with her. It's over. You've made your choice. And I've made mine. You've got 24 hours to get what you want out of this house and then I'm changing the locks."

"But honey," he said, his voice sounding small. "I was...It was...please don't do this."

"Don't do what? Treat you the way you've treated me? Fuck you Paul."

I almost never use that kind of language and something about the word "fuck" snapped his head up. Now he looked defiant. "You can't make me leave. I'm the one who paid for this house."

The last refuge of the male—financial power. Only this time it wasn't going to work.

"I can't? Well, try this then. When the kids get home, I'll go downstairs and tell them that Daddy's fucking an intern at work. At least she sure looked young enough to be an intern. I'll tell them that I caught him sucking face with her in a bar tonight. I'll tell them that their father is a scumbag liar who probably doesn't give two shits how they feel and that he sure doesn't love their mother any more, or he wouldn't be fucking some bimbo. You want me to do that, or do you want to move out?"

He considered saying something smart in response. I could see it in his eyes. When you've been married to someone eighteen years, you can read them pretty easily. I knew he was reading me too and that he saw conviction. Then his shoulders slumped and I knew I'd won. What I'd won, I wasn't sure, but it felt good at that moment to win something.

"I never meant to..."

"Shut up, Paul. I don't want to hear it. I just want you to get out."

And he did. He was gone by noon the following day, his car crammed with clothes, a few mementos and, of course, his golf bag. If he was going to be single, he'd need his golf bag. I let him explain his departure to the kids. I didn't really care what he told them, because I was going to tell them the truth. The older two were plenty old enough to handle it. My youngest was 10 and I figured she'd come to understand before too much longer. It just seemed to me that the truth was better than fiction.

That first year was horrible. Paul fought me for everything—the house, the retirement accounts, child support, and the furniture. In the end, I hired a shark of a lawyer and got slightly more than half of it all, even after her fees were deducted. The kids stayed mad at him, both for leaving, and then for making their lives harder with his struggles over tangible assets, and of course they were all terribly confused.

I tried my best to help them see that he was both their father, who they loved, and a man who had made poor choices, but still loved them. This was a difficult distinction for kids, I knew, but I hoped that one day they'd understand and forge a different relationship with him, one that had nothing to do with me. But that was his problem, not mine.

When the divorce was final at last, my friends took me out for a drink to celebrate. After the long slog of the past twelve months, I definitely felt like having some fun and I wanted them to know how much I appreciated their steadfast support for me and my kids.

Somewhere into our second round of Cosmopolitans Cindy turned to me with a very serious look in her eye. "Megan," she began, "Now that you're done with Paul, it's time to start thinking more about you."

I was about to ask her what she meant, but she plowed ahead.

"Sweetie," she said, "we've all been worried about you, but we aren't any more. The bad time is over and now it's time for the good times to begin. You're a wonderful person, you're young, and you're attractive. I'm not saying you need to start dating right away, but we don't want you to become a nun either."

"I wasn't planning to become a nun," I protested. They were all looking at me with the same look—half expectant, half sympathetic.

"We know," Cindy continued. "But, well, when was the last time you had sex?"

"Um, that would have to be about a week before I caught Paul fooling around." I didn't mention that although I'd thrown Paul's vibrator out, I had ordered one for myself from an online store a few months ago. I was having urges again.

"My point exactly," she said. "That's more than a year. You need to get back into the world."

"Well," I said. "I will. But you know how it's been."

"Of course we do," said Samantha. "But now we think it's time for you to refocus. Otherwise you'll stay tied to Paul. Don't let your anger toward him become your best friend."

"Yeah," Lilly chimed in. "Do that and he'll have his hooks in you forever."

Just to avoid having to say anything for a second, I took another gulp of my drink, feeling the vodka making my throat tingle as it slid down to my stomach. I couldn't be mad. These were my friends and they were talking sense. And I couldn't deny that I had been feeling the need for sex again lately.

"Okay," I said. "I promise. Tomorrow I'll go pick a guy and have wild, crazy sex with him."

They all laughed at that. They knew I was kidding, but also knew me well enough to know I was taking their advice.

"Seriously," I said. "Anyone know a nice guy I could date?"

The way they all looked at each other I knew they'd talked about it and had a candidate or two. Cindy remained spokeswoman for the group.

"Well, you met my husband's friend Alex a couple of years ago at our house. He's good looking and, like you, he's divorced." Then she giggled, whether from the Cosmos or from the release of nervous tension, "And he thinks you're cute."

"God only knows why," Lilly said, giggling too.

"Aren't you nice," I said, sticking out my tongue at her. I conjured up a picture of Alex. I'd talked to him for about half an hour that day at Cindy's cookout. Our kids were about the same age and we chatted as we watched our boys playing catch in the back yard. He was nice looking and seemed like a nice guy.

"Does Alex have a phone number?" I asked. If I was going to do this, I figured I'd better get going before I changed my mind.

"Um, yeah," Cindy said, fishing around in her purse. She pulled out her address book and pointed to a name. I snatched the book from her, grabbed my own purse, pulled out a pen and wrote it down on a bar napkin. When I handed back her book, they were all looking at me kind of funny.

"What?" I said. "You thought I was going to call him right this second?"

The looks on their faces were comical. It was obvious that's exactly what they thought.

"Well, I'm not. But I will call him. I promise." Then I tossed back the last of my drink and smiled at them to let them know I loved them all.

Alex and I dated three times before we ended up in bed together. He was a careful, considerate lover and I found that I had a lot of sexual energy stored up from a year of celibacy. But as time wore on, I also found that as much as I liked him, I didn't like him enough to invest much more in the relationship. He was nice, no doubt about it, but I wasn't planning on getting married again any time soon and, well, to tell the truth, he was good in bed, but not great. After the first few times, he kind of ran out of imagination and I could feel us falling into a routine—a routine that seemed to satisfy him, but not me.

When I told him I thought it wasn't really working out, he nodded and agreed. That kind of hurt, because some small part of me wanted him to beg me to stay with him, to tell me he couldn't live without me. But he was an honest guy—one of his better qualities—and like me he knew the spark just wasn't there. But I did appreciate him getting me into circulation.

At the time Alex and I had started dating, I was down another ten pounds from where I'd been when I tossed Paul—stress doesn't always make people gain weight. In my case, I had very little appetite for that whole first year and for a long time I ate just because I knew I had to. Since I liked the way I looked with out the extra weight I'd been carrying every since my youngest was born, I joined a health club and started working out regularly.

Before I knew it, I'd dropped another ten pounds and was very proud of the way I looked in the mirror. I'd probably never be thin—I'd neverbeen thin—but now that I was close to 30 pounds lighter, my body had a deliciously curvy look.

One consequence of the loss of weight was that I had to buy all new clothes. I'd have had to do that anyway, because I got a job, my first real job since I was 21. It had been scary going to work at 40, but that lasted for only a week. The advertising agency that hired me to be their receptionist was a pretty casual place, so when I bought my new wardrobe, I went for a look that highlighted my new-found curves while still looking casually professional. I was especially pleased to note that a couple of men who visited our offices were actually stealing peeks at me.

I dated a couple of other men that second year after Paul, but like Alex, none of them was what I was looking for. In fact, I had to admit to myself I really didn't know what I was looking for. It was something, but I just wasn't sure what it was. I figured I'd know it when I saw it.

Shortly after my 41st birthday, Christina joined our firm. I'd never met a woman like her. Like me she was tall and a natural redhead, but that was where the similarities stopped. Her hair was a luxuriant mane that shimmered as she walked and she wore the shortest skirts I'd ever seen a professional woman wear.

drlust
drlust
135 Followers