The Bitch

As usual she showed up around a holiday. Thanksgiving this time - a time for family and friends. Of course. She knew it would be hard, almost impossible, for us to deal with her. We couldn't toss her out on the street in front of my mother-in-law. So she had a place to stay for a little while. Someone to prey on.

It starts small - snide comments, impatient remarks. The Bitch acts like she somehow owns what my wife and I have built. She's nasty to me and talks my wife down every goddam chance she gets. She picks on her relentlessly; she isn't good enough, we aren't good enough, nothing is good enough. And on and on and on. She's there all weekend, gaining more and more ground. By the time all our other house guests leave, the Bitch is dug in.

Like a tick. That's the right phrase here. A tick. A harmful diseased parasite, contributing nothing, taking everything. Drinking our blood.

And she would take everything if we let her.

Everything.

She almost succeeded once.

At work on Monday, the secretary instantly picks up that something is horribly wrong. She's a good person and damned good at her job. We see her occasionally away from work, with her husband and kids - at holiday barbeques and that sort of thing. They look happy together. She is very mature and professional. A couple of tentacle tattoos escaping down an arm from one sleeve and questing toward her neck from her collar, hint that she may not have always been so urbane.

She eyes me cautiously.

I'm always the upbeat one, the one that brings in donuts occasionally, the one that lets everybody out a little early on Fridays - if the week was a bit hard, or even if the weather is promising a good weekend.

So even though I feign good humor, she can tell. They all can. The uncertainty will grow into a cloud that darkens the whole office. This is hard on everyone.

I'm not getting much done at work today. Or all week, for that matter. I'll spend a lot of time trying to think of ways to get rid of the Bitch. I can't exactly call the police on her.

At least I have the chance to go to work to avoid the Bitch. My wife can't get away from her at all.

I can see it on her when I get home. With the constant stress my wife hardly looks up and her shoulders seem permanently slumped. She rarely even makes eye contact with me for fear of sending the Bitch careening off on another hateful rant.

When my wife does make eye contact, I see fear and depression; she wants hope, but I can only give a little support and wait.

I end up making the evening meals. That's the start of our resistance.

The Bitch doesn't understand that this is how we secretly communicate. There are things we can say to each other right in front of her.

Monday is just a nice big salad full of the things my wife loves. It's a great meal after four days of rich holiday food and leftovers. The Bitch sees it and tells my wife I made salad because she's gotten too fat. But my wife notices that I've slipped in her favorite crazy-high-calorie dressing. And she slips me a tiny smile when the Bitch isn't looking.

On Tuesday, I look at my wife's defeated attitude and let my temper get the better of me. I let my mean streak loose.

Thai Basil Chicken.

My wife loves it and she sits silently, perched on a kitchen stool, watching me work, entranced. Even while I cook, the Bitch nags on about how the garlic and hot pepper make her eyes hurt and about how the fish sauce makes the whole house reek when it bubbles in the pan. She misses that magic transformation when the handfuls of basil hits the hot mixture.

And the Bitch completely ignores a basic rule of life.

Never fuck with someone who is going to be alone with your food.

There's a little extra hot pepper in the Bitch's portion. Maybe more than a little.

The Bitch flushes scarlet when the fire explodes in her mouth, gasping for air and gulping ice water. Wrong move. That just moves that searing oil, that napalm heat, around; it doesn't help with the heat at all.

Milk, or caramels, that would work.

My wife watches with silent, bladed, mirth. She sees the bowl of caramels that will kill that burn sitting untouched six inches from the Bitch's hand. She doesn't say a thing. I catch a tiny moment of panic in her eyes as she suppresses a giggle. To laugh now would be a disaster.

The Bitch storms from the room and my wife follows in her wake, giving me a grateful look as she does. She knows that this was for her, that we'll both suffer a bit for it, but at least we're fighting back.

Together.

The next night is Chicken Parmesan.

I chose it on purpose because it rivets me to the stove for much of the evening. And the Bitch is a little wary of fucking with me in the kitchen now. She knows it can get her burned.

She sits there watching me like a hawk. We'll be here for a while; the sauce is complicated, all fire roasted tomatoes, sun-dried tomato puree, diced vegetables, and spices. A splash of good red wine. And a lot of garlic. I ponder that for a long moment.

I've used a bunch of garlic this week; garlic toast with the salad, a ton in the Thai dish, and now even more. Maybe that means something subconsciously. The Bitch is a vampire, an undead leech, and maybe down deep, this is another way to fight back.

Or maybe it just means my wife and I like garlic.

My wife watches too. It is her absolute favorite meal. The sauce simmers gently, and I can see her inhale the rich scent every now and then, filling her lungs, and then breathing out slowly.

The Bitch just grumbles about how the tomato sauce will spatter the stove top and maybe give her heartburn.

I trim the chicken breasts and pound them flat, filling them with mozzarella, provolone and shredded Parmesan, with just a bit of smoked Gouda, before folding them and breading them in a mix of spiced bread crumbs and grated Parmesan.

I make the pasta from scratch. Partly because it's better that way, partly because it will drag the whole process out and make a bigger mess. If I've guessed right, that will be important.

The sauce needs more time to simmer anyway.

I blender more garlic in with the water I use to make the linguine. Who knows? Maybe it really will help drive the Bitch away.

The Bitch looks incredulously at the wreckage in the kitchen. Every gizmo and gadget in here has been used. She is offended, as if she owns this kitchen. She voices her objections, but stops when I tell her I'll clean it up after dinner myself. That hot pepper is paying off a little, she lets it go. I can see my wife wants to offer to help, but if she does the Bitch will use it as an opportunity to needle her about how weak she is.

The meal turns out perfect. It had to, I can't afford mistakes now.

We can't afford mistakes now.

From my wife's expression, she's caught the subtle message, the question I'm asking. She takes an extra glass of wine, eyeing me over the rim. Her eyes are storm cloud grey, the color of cold steel.

A color I haven't seen since the Bitch arrived.

We're done with this Bitch, she's saying. It ends tonight.

I clean the kitchen alone; most of the stuff I used can't be washed in the dishwasher, so it's almost an hour before it's done. I could've cut the time if I'd have cleaned up as I made dinner, but we needed this pause, this time, for my wife to set the Bitch up.

Timing is important here.

I can hear them moving around in the bedroom as I head into the main bathroom, and take a shower. I don't shave and I only put on deodorant, not cologne. Just lounge pants, no shirt.

By the time I get to the bedroom she is in bed. The only light is the harsh white top light on the alarm clock. I can see her lying in the center of the bed, on her side, facing away from the door. From me. She's taking up as much of the bed as she can, and she's wearing an old set of cotton "not tonight" pajamas my wife was planning on throwing away months ago.

I can hear the ceiling fan. It's on medium which gets the bed too cold, and its making that odd sound.

The sheets have been changed to an old set of dark red silk sheets, the color of dried blood. They go with nothing in the room. My wife made a good choice.

I slide in behind the Bitch.

She's awake, but she doesn't move. My wife always turns her head for a kiss, even if she's asleep. She somehow just knows I'm there.

Not the Bitch.

I can feel her hunch into herself a little. It doesn't seem like much, but I know it's about to begin. I raise up and kiss her neck. The Bitch wants to pull away, but my wife won't let her. There's a brief struggle, and her head tilts slightly, exposing more of her neck.

I smile. Not a happy smile; it's the joyless anticipation of a soldier moving the selector switch from "safe" to "semi" on his carbine.

I kiss her neck again, just at the hairline behind the jaw. Letting the edges of my teeth rake her skin, letting my unshaved skin grate against her softness. She shivers and goosebumps spring up instantly all down her neck.

It hits her like an electric shock; I can just glimpse her nipples, incredibly hard against her thin pajama top. Her breathing shifts, shallower, but more rapid.

I can also see an odd rip in the collar of her pajama top, just below the hollow of her throat. I give a small, real, smile. My wife is a clever, clever girl. And the Bitch underestimated her again.

I force my left arm under her - between her arm and her body. I reach up with it and grip the hair on the left side of her head. All the Bitch has to do to stop this is say something. "Stop" or "No".

But my wife won't let her talk at all.

Her breathing speeds up to almost panic speed. The Bitch realizes she's been set up, that it's a trap.

She starts to struggle a bit, reaching back as if to push me away, but her right hand can't touch me, it stops, seemingly trapped in the air above her hip. My wife has two black belts in different martial arts, earned nearly a decade apart. In our library, there is a row of trophies for full contact fighting, many of them say "Champion". If a man grabbed her like I'm holding this Bitch, they'd be killed or crippled.

But the Bitch knows none of that, she struggles ineffectually. Her legs kick a little, but she can't seem to get purchase on the silk sheet. Her left hand touches my left elbow as if to try to pull it away. But she can't seem to get a grip.

I know why. She's fighting two of us. The Bitch never seems to understand that. I reach over with my right hand and grip her collar, just to the side of the tear. She freezes, not believing I'd do it.

The cloth barely makes any sound at all as it tears. And yet that tiny sound seems to echo all around us.

The Bitch stops breathing for a second in utter disbelief. The top practically falls apart, there must have been other tears and maybe pulled seams. She's topless, aching nipples exposed to the cold air of the fan.

My wife loves having her breasts caressed and played with. They're so very sensitive. She didn't always have them. When we were first married, she was so thin, she had what she termed "mosquito bites". She's gained some weight since then, but it's settled in some good places. And her "girls", as she calls them are the result of that. She loves them, and loves those caresses. But the Bitch will get none of that. This is about taking back what's ours.

I can smell her excitement. The Bitch hates that, hates that this excites her, hates that I know it. She manages to make an angry sound, but nothing coherent. I tighten my grip in her hair and bite again, harder at the base of her neck. Where a leopard bites its prey.

Her heels drum on the bed for a second as she fights for footing. Footing that simply isn't there on the slippery silk. She arches her back. Her hands shoot straight out, seeking something to grab, to pull herself away from me.

That's a mistake because there's nothing there, and because the collar gave me a hint at my wife's plan, her preparations. I grab the waistband and yank, hoping. The whole right side of her pants tear away in long shreds. I keep at it, keeping her pinned down with her hair while stripping her clothes away. Somewhere in there her underwear has come away. I hitch my lounge pants down and kick them away.

She feels my hardness against her ass and snarls wordlessly.

I can really smell her excitement now. She's completely vulnerable, and she hates that. And hates it even more because it arouses her so intensely.

I grab her right knee and pull it up hard, almost touching her nipples. Just almost though.

She's totally exposed, totally open, and I take her with one hard thrust all the way in.

She shivers, trying to adjust. Then she starts to move.

She can't move much, but if she's trying to pull away she's moving in the wrong direction. I can sense my wife's wicked glee at the Bitch's weakness.

I move my teeth along her neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to be painful, but with no chance of breaking the skin.

There may be some marks in the morning that will have to be explained away, but it mostly hurts the Bitch because it shows that my wife and I can own her.

I pound into her with bruising strength, with no concern for the Bitch's feelings at all. She's so wet, so turned on, I'm not sure I can hurt her this way right now.

Not that it matters.

Eventually - it feels like an eternity - a tiny whimper starts. It's fighting its way out through gritted, bared teeth.

The Bitch gasps as it finally breaks through.

She pushes back as hard as she can and I can feel the pulses push through her in waves of heat and a flood of even more moisture.

As it dies down, I release her leg, letting it slowly collapse forward and down. She seems to relax, but I don't let go of her hair. She's nowhere near as clever as my wife, but she's cunning and manipulative.

It's a good decision. Just as she seems to relax, the Bitch tries to bolt away, toward the night table. She's desperate and she thinks there's a gun there. I moved it on Monday after my wife shot me a worried look and glanced at the table. Of course, only I know the combination to the gun lock - my wife demands it stays that way. But why take chances? Underestimating your enemy can be fatal.

It's where she can't ever get to it - the bottom desk drawer at work.

My iron grip on her hair brings her up short, facing me. The Bitch knows she can't break that grip, even if my wife would let her try. There are other trophies up in that library that don't belong to my wife.

Wrestling. Rock Climbing.

I can see the Bitch's face now. She's furious that we anticipated her lunge. She's already figured out here's no gun there anymore. Like I said, cunning.

Her face is a study in anger.

The Bitch crawls toward me, putting one hand against my chest and pushing me onto my back. My wife will allow that. In fact, she encourages it. She wants the Bitch to lose on her own terms. It scares her to do this, but it's important.

The Bitch thinks she has a chance this way, at least for a small victory. Now that she knows we're working together against her, she can't hope for more than that.

I think that's all she can hope for, anyway. My wife always seems more frightened about this part than she should if it's about small victories. I can feel her fear.

The Bitch mounts me in a single move. She's still wet, and volcano hot. She shoves her tits in my face, but I don't touch them. She's not my wife and she doesn't get to be treated like her. The Bitch starts pumping up and down, trying to force me. She's skilled, energetic and has no scruples. She moves beautifully, but to little effect. While I'm rock hard, it's not love or lust driving me, its anger.

She's not my wife and there are things she just can't have no matter what.

Her nails tear into my chest. Because my wife won't let her use her claws on my face.

The Bitch kisses me, hungrily, angrily, with no love at all. They're bruising, hard kisses, with teeth, and I can feel my lip split. Taste blood.

She thinks the kisses will trigger my climax.

I only have suspicions about why the Bitch wants this so bad, maybe it's about beating me, maybe it's about having something to hold over my wife's head.

It doesn't matter. The Bitch can't have this. And she's made a mistake. Her eagerness to win is exciting her too much. I can feel it, the Bitch is falling into her own trap.

She realizes it and tries to slow down.

My wife and I almost never talk about the Bitch, but on a few very dark nights she has whispered secrets, things she knows that no one else could ever know.

Things she'd never say in daylight. Things she can only bring herself to tell me so I can protect us.

I've been using those secrets all along, but the Bitch hasn't figured out that I know them.

I keep the Bitch's hair trapped with my left hand. Then I bring my right down sharply on her ass in a hard, ringing slap. The angle isn't good, so it's not as hard as I wanted, but it's enough.

The Bitch has a hunger, a secret craving for pain.

She loses her rhythm as the orgasm hits.

She's trying to regain control, but I know her triggers. Just as the pulses of her orgasm start to die away, I thrust sharply into her, two... three times. It's too soon, she's too sensitive and she's prone to multiple orgasms.

Another wave of orgasm so close to the first is too much, the Bitch is losing her hold and I know my wife is smiling, a fierce, joyous smile.

I pull the Bitch off me by her hair, but roll right on to her again. She's like a rag doll, too weak to even put up token resistance.

I keep my grip on her hair, but only to let her know she's lost, completely conquered. I begin to move in and out in long slow strokes. The kind my wife loves.

It takes a while, but I begin to feel hesitant thrusts from below, shaky at first but building strength. A hand seeks my right hand, fingers interlacing with mine. I finally look into the eyes of the woman below me.

The storm grey eyes of my wife.

They're streaming tears, but it's her. A smile of relief lights her face. It's over and the Bitch is gone, banished.

I release her hair as we build together, until we both release at the same time.

We cling a long time just like that. When I sense she's ready, I roll off of her, but I don't let go of her hand.

We just stay there side by side just holding hands with white knuckle ferocity as the ceiling fan spins.

She's crying, tears running down to the bed. But I'm not supposed to know, so I pretend I don't see, don't feel her shaking.

I just want to hold her, but it'd be too much. It's too raw.

When the time is right we roll toward each other, and share a gentle kiss, she's shy, almost like we just met.

We each slide off our side of the bed. She heads into the master suite bathroom, I while I pad down the hall to the main bathroom.

I just use the dim glow of the night light. I take my time, cleaning up. But I don't touch the split lip or the deep claw marks in my chest.

I sit on the edge of the tub and wait. She needs a bit more time.

I reflect on the need for this, my willingness to do this for her.

Enough time ticks by and I walk to the bedroom. The fan is still on medium, but the sheets have been changed to an azure set that matches the bedroom perfectly. My wife sits on the end of the bed in a light green camisole set, hands folded in her lap, looking down. The only light is from a candle shedding soft, warm light from a small brass hurricane lamp on the night table.

I sit next to her and she slides down to her knees in front of me with a warm washcloth and a tube of antibiotic. She forces herself to study the ragged tears in my skin, cleaning them and treating them as gently as she can.

She's punishing herself for being weak, too weak to keep the Bitch away from us. I want to tell her it will be okay, to hold her. But I can't even make eye contact. This is her ritual, it's what she needs.