Short Story: Marionette

This story is a little more explicit that usual. If you’re offended by adult situations, please do not read.


I woke up in someone’s arms and at first it didn’t register to question this. I remained blissful in that hazy area somewhere between consciousness and sleep, where dreams and reality meld, where the inner child is sated as the mind is allowed to wander down avenues long abandoned.

I remained there for what felt like an eternity, or maybe only a few stolen moments, before I became aware of his presence, and how he shouldn’t have been there. My eyes opened with a start before I closed them in a silent prayer. “Please, don’t let it be him,” I beseeched my silent God. I slowly turned to face him, hoping to find myself in bed with a complete stranger, as odd as that might sound. Instead, I looked into the contented face of my sleeping ex-husband.

“Shit,” I groaned. Greg began to stir as soon as I uttered a sound.

“Good morning, beautiful!” He greeted me sleepily with his crooked, mega-watt smile. “You were amazing last night.”

“Get out,” I hissed, pulling the covers up to hide my nakedness from him. He no longer had any rights to see me, to have me as his own. He gave that up when he left to be with her.

“Oh, it’s like that?” He grinned. “Right, I’ll just be going. Do you want me to pretend that this wasn’t your idea?”

I froze. What was he talking about? Thought the previous night was a blur, I doubted I was the one to have initiated anything with him. I never did. He was a highly skilled manipulator who knew how to pull people’s stings and get them to do what he wanted without ever being the one to initiate anything himself. I knew his game, and I refused to be strung further into whatever web he was trying to weave.

When I didn’t respond, he shrugged and got out of bed. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help admiring the way he looked as he walked across the room, completely naked. He kept in shape, every muscle defined so that he looked like some god of old, without going overboard and looking like some juiced up freak. Vanity motivated him to wax all hair off his body, and his sun-kissed skin was perfectly tanned.

I hated him. Next to him, what was I? Some aging scorned suburban housewife? My breasts were beginning to sag, and my tan had faded along with the pain of our divorce. I still worked out some, but not with the same intensity I did while married to him. My husband didn’t care about some trophy wife. With that thought, I bolted upright. Where was my husband?

Greg’s smile broadened as he read my mind. “Don’t worry about Mark,” he assured me. “He’s sleeping in the guest room. It was his idea, you know, for me to sleep with you. He almost begged me to take you. He watched and he thanked me for the honor of sleeping with his wife.”

“You son, of, a, bitch!” I yelled, hitting him between every word. I forgot my modesty and I let my covers fall and I ran to him. “You sick, twisted, mother, fucker!”

He laughed. In spite of my anger, I couldn’t help but feel the gravitational pull of his personality. He was evil, I had no doubt, but the thought of making love to another man while my husband sat watching turned me on more than I ever thought possible. I was surprised, but I didn’t care. He need to go.

Instead, I pulled him towards me and pressed our naked bodies into an embrace. I began to kiss him hungrily, wanting to devour his vitality. I missed his energy, his raw, primal sexuality as he made me feel like some otherworldly goddess. I knew better than to let him back in, but I was powerless to resist him, and he knew it.

I fell to my knees and began to kiss his manhood. It had been too long since I had felt him. I suppose I had last night, but it was lost in a haze. I began to please Greg when we were interrupted by my husband walking in on us. He looked shocked, his place usurped by the man who had wronged me years ago. I didn’t care. Let my sissy of a husband look on. He rarely satisfied me the way Greg could.

Mark stood in silent horror, until someone else came into the room, Greg’s wife. “Oh, look like’s hubby’s busy with your wifey,” she purred. “Why don’t you come back and let me take care of you?”

It became clear to me, that this is what the sadistic bastard wanted. He had always begged me to sleep with his friends, to agree to an open marriage, to become a swinger. I had refused, morally disgusted by his perverse desires. Now, he had finally succeeded in divorce what he never accomplished during our marriage. He had manipulated me into become an adulterer, and I knew he had won.

The pain was intermingled with delight, and I lost myself to his desires.

“So?” he interrupted as he caressed my cheek. “Are we going to stop now?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Do with me as you will. Greg will enjoy being our bitch.”

And with that, the invisible strings that I had thought I had cut so many years ago revealed themselves, and I accepted that I was nothing more that a puppet in his practiced hands, and I loved him all the more, cursing my own weakness. I hope that bitch enjoyed my husband. I was never letting hers go.

Short Stories

Next story – Los Altos
Previous story – Breaking Free

2 thoughts on “Short Story: Marionette

  1. Pingback: Short Story: Breaking free | Joe Hinojosa

  2. Pingback: Short Story: Los Altos | Joe Hinojosa

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