A WASP Listens To His Wife At Dinner free porn video

A WASP LISTENS TO HIS WIFE AT DINNER By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020 Warning: If you don't like reading Fiction Mania stories, then stop reading now. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. RT THE RESTAURANT Randolph Cartier the Third drove his black S-Class Mercedes up to the sweeping entrance of Caf? Henri Lourger. The valet opened the driver's door for him. Randolph got out. He looked great --- for his age. He was tall and fit and, greying, had a standard male haircut. He straightened the lapels of his double-breasted dark grey Armani suit, glanced at the magnificent lilac bush to the right of the door, inhaled, smiled, and entered the restaurant. He checked his Day-Date 36 yellow gold Rolex: 6:27 p.m. Henri, the short, balding ma?tre d'hotel, greeted him warmly. "Monsieur Cartier, encore. C'est un grand plaisir." Henri beckoned him inside and led him toward one of the restaurant's more intimate, secluded, quiet corner booths; privacy was assured. Dark oak paneling. Soft orange lighting. Lots of shadows. A deep blue carpet. Barely audible piano music. Hushed tones. Well-dressed couples leaning in to talk to each other across the other tables. Consistently dressed staff. Immaculate cleanliness. It was 'that sort' of restaurant for "our kind of people," Randolph would often say. "Madam awaits you, sir." Henri deferentially waved his hand toward Isabella and left. Isabella glanced at her Bestiaire Evol D'un Phoenix Dark Purple Mother of Pearl with Diamonds Feather Dial ladies' watch. Without her reading glasses, she couldn't read the dial clearly; the watch was stunningly beautiful but otherwise quite useless. Nonetheless, she said remarked, "You're late, my dear husband," and she rose to greet her husband. "Oh, my darling beloved bride. My tardiness makes me miss you even more." He took her hand, stood back, and looked at her. She was tall and lean, the form fitting gunmetal Armani Priv? dress complemented her figure. Her greying hair was in a chignon bun. Her face was regal and exuded confidence. In some ways (more than a 'couple', probably 'several', but certainly not 'many' and definitely not 'all'), he remained as smitten by her today as he was when they first met. And here they were, still together, decades later. "Oh, my enchantress and jewel of my eye, I adore you." He went to kiss her hand. She pulled it away. "Please sit down, my dear husband. I wish to discuss something with you." She sneered at him as she sat herself. Surprised and puzzled, he sat down too. "We're doing the twelve-course dinner," she said. "Excellent choice, my dear," he warmly said and smiled at her. Oh no, he inwardly groaned, this is going to be one of 'those' dinners. #1: HORS D'OEUVRES Louise silently served the first course. Each tiny goat cheese crostini with fig-olive tapenade was delicious. The white Bacchus from Sussex complemented it perfectly. Isabella began: "My dear husband, there comes a point in almost every married woman's life at which she wonders whether it worth staying with her husband anymore. I am at that point. And I have arrived at certain conclusions in respect of the possible ways in which I wish to live the remainder of my life." She paused and nibbled. Randolph continued to eat and looked at her affectionately, patiently. Fuck: here we go again, he thought. He blinked his eyes to indicate that he was listening attentively. "I have not come to these conclusions easily. I have brought to bear my considerable faculties and acumen. I have weighed the merits and demerits of various options. I have happily settled on a few with which I am extremely comfortable." She looked at him with a hint of disdain. "My dear husband, I have asked you here for dinner tonight so that I might share with you my vision regarding my future with you, or without you, as the case may be." She put her napkin down. Randolph finished his bite, folded his napkin, and placed it next to his plate. He smiled at Isabella. "Randolph, I am prepared to divorce you immediately." She was happy! There, she had said it! She was proud of herself. She had waited years and years to utter those words to him. Tonight, she finally felt confident enough to do so. That condescending bastard, she thought, he'll get his due tonight: that fucker's not going to be smiling soon. She smiled back at him. Randolph patiently continued to smile at her. He sighed: her using his proper first name confirmed to him that this was going to be a long dinner. Nina silently cleared the table. #2: AMUSE-BOUCHE Jules silently served the second course. Each small caprese bite with basil vinaigrette was delicious. The Lagrein ros? from Alto Adige complemented it perfectly. "Randolph, have you any sense or sensibility regarding the reasons underpinning my conclusions? Is there any degree of reflection, self- awareness, introspection that might possibly enable you to hypothesize the scope and nature of the underpinnings?" She stared at him and licked her fork. He smiled at her and imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. His body language suggested that he hadn't a clue. In fact, he didn't have a clue. Frankly, he often thought she was somewhat wacko. "Randolph, we are having a conversation. You need to participate. Please answer my questions when they are posed to you." She said these words with force. "My darling Isabella," he replied calmly, "you know everything about me. Our parents were best friends with one another. You and I grew up together; we shared diapers and nursemaids. We went to the same school, attended the same classes, and played the same sports. We lost our virginities, together, with one another. We dated throughout our teenage years. At university, we lived together. We married. We raised three wonderful children, all of whom are professionals today. "You have seen me --- us! --- create a company from scratch and, by hook or by crook, turn it into a mega-conglomerate worth dozens of millions of dollars. You have sat at the head table for each board meeting alongside me. You have attended all the significant shareholder meetings. Through my --- our! --- majority ownership, we have molded a workforce of thousands into manufacturing widgets and other products for our phenomenal profit and we have overcome any obstacle or challenge our competitors, both on the board and outside the company, have tried to place in our formidable path." Simone silently cleared the table. #3: SOUP Louise silently served the third course. Each small bowl of the creamy Tuscan white bean and roasted garlic soup was delicious. The Verdicchio from the Marche complemented it perfectly. "You have been with me, my dearest Isabella, through thick and thin. I believe you know everything about me already. So, I confess that I am at a loss to identify what may have provoked you into concluding that it is necessary to divorce me at the present juncture." He dabbed his napkin on his lips --- and smiled at her. Isabella smirked. "Randolph, I have indeed been by your side through the years. I have indeed been with you through thick and thin as you put it. But I have also indeed witnessed many acts or neglects committed by you which, had I been any other woman, would have been acted upon for they constituted immediate grounds for divorce. Do not engage in any flippancy here tonight." Randolph smiled seriously and nodded his head; she's fucking nuts again, he thought. That condescending piece of shit, Isabella thought, is going down. "I would have you consider one example of misconduct by you upon which action could have been taken to divorce you. You surely remember that sunny, blue sky day when we were just starting out? Highway 666? A blurry, grey'ish object on the road? 'It's a big plastic bag. It'll blow away,' you said. You kept your foot on the gas. You damaged daddy's car running that lowly soul over. And what did you say? 'Just some homeless guy,' you said. 'I hope your old man doesn't bug me too much about the fender,' you said. "Now, obviously, your callous remarks about the fender were not what made me divorce-ably mad. Rather, it was your approaching me, requesting that I not report your delinquency to the police. You made me an accomplice to your driving which advanced some doomed bum's inevitably grisly death. You corrupted me." Isabella was indignant. "Oh, my darling beloved bride. We went over this example the last time and the time before that and the last time before that last, last time." Randolph's voice hinted at the ennui of hearing repeated, over and over and over again, some complaint about him. "First, I never actually prevented you from reporting anything to the police. So it seems mildly insulting that I the driver bear the blame for your inaction as a passenger. If you feel guilty for not reporting my so- called crime, then you should expect to be judged for your failure." He waved his hand philosophically. Randolph took another sip of the soup and then continued. "Second, I did not corrupt you nor could I have done so. You willingly walked through that door, into the life in which you now live. Your choice, one which, by the way, has paid for this dinner, your beautiful dress --- I'm sorry, my darling, I ought to have complimented you on it previously. I apologize --- your BMW, our cottages, the Normandy villa, our homes, and all sorts of the many other things that compose parts of our enriched, deserved, and entitled daily lives. "Your corruption, as you call it, my dearest, sweetest Isabella, has served you well." Randolph glanced to the side and stopped speaking. Nina silently cleared the table. #4: APPETIZER Jules silently served the fourth course. Each of the button mushrooms stuffed with pecorino romano, garlic, and breadcrumbs was delicious. The Champagne from ?pernay complemented it perfectly. "How dare you throw my corruption in my face! My corruption," Isabella said, "has served you well too, Randolph. Remember Julie, that innocent young girl back in high school? She was not a wanton slut. You almost raped --- don't quibble with me now, Randolph --- you almost raped that girl. Had we been married at the time, I could have divorced you for that slip-up. "But who ensured that her previously pristine reputation was obliterated so that the police would close the investigation with the conclusion that 'she deserved it' or something like that? Yes, me. So, please do not discount your benefit, Randolph, in my being corrupt as well." Isabella continued: "In any event, I hardly see how one can compare, on the one hand, my failure to report a hit-and-run and the slandering of a stupid, virginal girl's reputation, to, on the other hand, your egregious, monstrous, loathsome depravity that has led us to this dinner tonight. Randolph felt a piece of garlic stuck between his two uppermost molars on the left side of his mouth. He pursed his lips to stretch his left cheek and rubbed his cheek and upper gumline with his left thumb. The garlic dislodged. He swallowed it. He smiled at his wife. "To be perfectly clear, Randolph, I am not presently dwelling on your past shortcomings, depravities from days of yore, such as, for example, your pillaging your mother's estate. "You knew damn well that your two siblings were each entitled to their respective third shares under Paige's will instructions. Yet you grossed- up the estate management fees, forged a few signatures on key probate papers, and threatened the accountant with bodily harm unless he depreciated the asset allowance estimates. Thus, you received 90% of her estate. It was an extraordinary betrayal of the trust your mother reposed in you as her estate administrator. "Your brother and sister are not starving, true, but they were entitled to their entitlements. And your actions were especially galling once you took their gifts and invested them in one of your dog-vomit companies for the purpose of inflating your shares' value. You sold high but left your siblings high and dry. For them, the ensuing litigation was worse than Jarndyce v. Jarndyce. No wonder they don't talk to you anymore." Isabella saw someone approach their table. She put her cutlery down and looked at Randolph blankly. Simone silently cleared the table. #5: SALAD Louise silently served the fifth course. Each little asparagus, pecorino and red onion salad was delicious. The Pinot Gris from Burgundy complemented it perfectly. Isabella continued: "And who could forget the spinal cystic-fibrosis charity money that you raised and proceeded to spend on a Floridian dream home. You ---" "Your architectural design specifications, Isabella. You love that home as much as I do," Randolph matter-of-factly interjected. "And you also love the proceeds from mother's estate." His eyes darted to the side. "Hardly divorce-worthy conduct." He gently placed his napkin down and stopped talking. "Yes, Randolph, I do in fact adore that home and I do appreciate the societal need for someone of my stature to be affluent, to be an example," she said. "Yet I am not overly concerned about it nor other historical matters. "That you had, for instance, successive affairs with Andrea, then Brianna, and then Chantelle at our office in your first year as CEO would have destroyed any other marriage once the rumours were confirmed to be true. And to knowingly launch groundless sexual harassment suits against them? The chutzpah! They backed off, so you won! To be clear, I am not concerned about that episode." She used her napkin. "Nor am I concerned about the 27 and a half other affairs you have had. Yes, I knew about that puny Uzbek midget." Isabella dabbed her lips again with her napkin. She sensed something on her lips, some crumb or speck of something. She glanced at the napkin: nothing. She continued: "A famous actress --- Randolph, hush, I forget her name and it's not important anyway --- once said something like this, if I can paraphrase her accurately: 'The most important attributes a wife must have are one blind eye and one deaf ear'. Words of wisdom, Randolph, words of wisdom. And I lived them for you, Randolph. I never initiated a divorce proceeding for those delicts of yours. Nor the many abortions. "And those creepy comments about Holly our eldest? You asked my father whether he agreed that Holly was hot. You told a boardroom full of middle-aged men just like yourself that, were Holly not your daughter, then you would 'tap her'. You described her to her prom date as 'a piece of juicy tail', and 'completely do-able'. "You even bragged at church once about how you kiss Holly 'every chance I get'. I still hear your sober voice booming at a summer picnic: 'Grab her by the pussy!'. None of the signs of an Electra complex but all of the signs of an incestuous predator." She hissed the last two words. Randolph delicately, gently, and tenderly hurled his napkin onto the table. "Oh, my darling beloved bride. Both you and I know that such behaviour does not engender a divorce." His words were uttered with the humblest arrogance possible. "To the contrary, such behaviour is entirely presidential and unimpeachable. Just as acceptable in our circles as our creative tax deductions." He smiled smugly at his wife. Nina silently cleared the table. #6: FISH Jules silently served the sixth course. Each thin sliver of the crispy trout with a parsley-caper vinaigrette was delicious. The Sauvignon Blanc from Nelson complemented it perfectly. Isabella hated that he was right and reluctantly nodded in agreement. "I suppose all of it could have been tested in court had I divorced you. But I didn't divorce you for them, Randolph. As I previously said, such historical examples are not of my immediate concern. What is on my mind is... Wait, please." She wrinkled her face. "Excuse me, please, one moment, dear." Before she could taste the fish, Isabella turned her head toward the wall and twitched her mouth; she knew she had something stuck between her maxillary central incisors. It was probably a bit of an asparagus tip. She flicked her tongue around. She covered her lips with her right hand. She searched for a toothpick on the table. But there would never be any toothpicks on the tables at Caf? Henri Lourger; it wasn't that sort of restaurant. She expertly used the fingernail of her right forefinger to dislodge the stuck asparagus. She saw Randolph look at her disapprovingly. She blushed with embarrassment. Isabella sighed. "Randolph, if we were to dwell upon the past, then we would never leave this restaurant for a week. Case in point: you sponsored several questionable drug research reports and peddled them to a medical association that then advised its membership to more frequently prescribe opioids, specifically, those opioids manufactured by a drug company in which you had invested. I could have notified the authorities of your pump-and-dump scheme; but I did not. "You whispered reports to journalists that our erstwhile friend John was having an affair with Zara Linscol, that ghastly woman, profoundly stupid and immensely dumb as she is. He was a strong believer in family values and abstinence. His career got ruined. Your whispering campaign worked but was built on falsehoods; John never touched that ugly thing, and you knew it. "All that to free up a membership spot at the Mount Jerome Golf & Country Club for your political crony Marco. And what of that despicable man? Sexting and dick pics with a 14-year-old girl? Your friendships and associations through the years have been damnable, divorce-able." Randolph found a small bone in the fish and stared at it. He then dropped it on the floor, surreptitiously he thought. Isabella stared disapprovingly at him. She continued: "You even lied under oath when Marco got indicted for structuring bank withdrawals in order to conceal his sexual misconduct against young men that he coached on his wrestling team in university." Simone silently cleared the table. #7: FIRST MAIN COURSE Louise silently served the seventh course. The roasted duck with its orange-ginger glaze was delicious. The Gamay from the Loire Valley complemented it perfectly. "Randolph, you fired --- fine, fine, fine: 'terminated'; now stop quibbling please, Randolph --- you terminated every person who was not white, Christian, or heterosexual from each of our companies. When these terminations were contested, you compelled or blackmailed or I don't know what Henry Yagoda and Nick Yezhov from the accounting department to come out as gay and transgender respectively, even though both were straight and married. This was to just to stave off the Employment Equity Commission's investigations. How much did you pay them? "Do you realize the laughter you unleashed in making our staff look at Nikki, I think as she or he or she calls...herself now, in a Dirndl dress? He weighed 98 kg; remember the day he wore that body-con dress? It was worse than Halloween. That distraction adversely affected our office's productivity! "And Henry is still in conversion therapy and his wife and three spoilt brats are still in counselling. You did it! You did that to them!" Isabella clanged her knife and fork onto the plate. "You are mean, nasty, boastful, dishonest, cringe-worthy, despicable, awful, horrible, arrogant, pompous, tedious, cruel, narrow-minded, horrific, impulsive, deceitful, boring, aggressive, bossy, harsh, careless, cowardly, selfish, fussy, grumpy, unhappy, impatient, jealous, greedy, untrustworthy, moody, and overcritical." Randolph smiled at her. That incessantly nattering woman, he thought: wouldn't it be easier sometimes to be deaf? "And rude," she finished with venom, "don't forget rude." "My darling Isabella," he warmly began, "I always appreciate your sharing with me your candid views about my several and various accomplishments and qualities." He cut into the duck. He nibbled a small portion: delicious. He sliced another small piece: scrumptious. This is what life is about: satiating indulgence. He continued: "I am hardly at all concerned about any of these matters from yesterday or the day before or the day before that. You understand my bearing and disposition. These trifles have not, do not, and shall not burden me. Nor that cute conscience of mine that you not irregularly remind me I lack." His knife could not effectively cut a piece of thigh still attached to cartilage. He quickly glanced left and right, lowered his head toward the table and over the plate, picked up the thigh with his fingers, and chewed the piece off the thigh: delicious. Isabella looked at him with disgust. Embarrassed, he put the thigh down, licked his fingers, and used the napkin. "In any event, my pride and joy, our peers would have little reason to be critical. There is no risk of ostracization. None of excommunication. Ejection, eviction, expulsion? Our kind of people would not consider such options in such circumstances. We are just like our friends, or more accurately, those within our social circles: WASPs. For me specifically, I am a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant cisgender, heterosexual, heteronormative male --- with lots of money. All of this compels---" Isabella slapped her left hand on the table and leaned into Randolph's space; it interrupted him. She stared at him with bursting joy. She spoke slowly: "Oh, Randolph! This duck is in fact the best!" His reply was instantaneous and equally admiring: "Oh, I know! It is indeed!" Each smacked their own lips and briefly caught the other's eye. A pleasant shared memory of long ago, of a roadside dinner, of eating chicken wings, flashed across the table. It then vanished. Isabella turned away from the distant moment first. Randolph sighed and continued: "Anyway, all of these sterling qualities are possessed by me --- us! yes, you too, of course darling --- all of our business partners, our colleagues, our home school alumni, our evangelical prayer group members, our virginity ball co-graduates, our closed & gated community neighbours. Not a single Democrat among them either, I am especially pleased to remind you. Anyway, everyone who matters is not unlike us generally and me, the quintessential WASP male, specifically." He finished the duck and leaned back. Scrumptious. Exquisite. Why couldn't he have duck everyday? Nina silently cleared the table. #8: PALATE CLEANSER Jules silently served the eighth course. The lemon sorbet was delicious. The prosecco superiore from Friuli Venezia Giulia complemented it perfectly. "So, as I reflect upon the meandering passage of our present dinner discussion, I fail to discern what it may pray be that could instigate the madness and insanity you now mention, to wit, a divorce." Randolph dropped his napkin on his plate. His fatigue of annoyance at his darling Isabella was kept in check. Isabella smiled proudly. No: she beamed. No: better yet, hers was the biggest, hugest, massivest, colossalest, ginormousest smile in the Milky Way at that precise moment in galactic time. She leaned across the table and hissed to him: "I discovered your dirty little secret, you fucking perverted, sick, cock-sucking, sissy faggot!" She leaned back and gloated. Years of resentment energized her, years of anger electrified her. She was confident that she could now ruin him. Her time had come! Randolph tilted his head, scrunched his face quizzically, and looked at her. He had no fucking idea what she was talking about. Simone silently cleared the table. #9: SECOND MAIN COURSE Louise silently served the ninth course. Each herb-crusted venison medallion was delicious. The shiraz from south Australia complemented it perfectly. Isabella smiled mischievously at Randolph. I will toy with him for awhile, she thought, and then put the schmendrick in the gutter! "You left so many clues, my dearest, soon-to-be, ex-husband. How clever of you to try to hide them in plain view! I saw through that deception! You must think that I am an idiot! Putting passwords on a notepad immediately next to your keyboard! Never clearing your history nor your cookies! Leaving Word documents open! Website links right on your bookmark bar!" She glowered at him. He looked back at her, somewhat clueless. She rolled her eyes and continued: "Really? Even now? Denial? Asking me how a bra feels? Whether corsets work or not? Techniques to go up and down stairs in heels? Nylon or silk? My views on how different lingerie feels? My thoughts on what constitutes the ultimate expression of femininity? The sensation of a swollen nipple while being sucked? Randolph, why did you ask me?" She sipped her drink, put the glass down, and teasingly asked again: "Why?" Hers was now a sly smile. Randolph looked at her blankly. WTF? he wondered. Isabella was relishing the moment. "Randolph! Put your cutlery down! Listen to me! Remember this moment for the rest of your pathetic, unenviable, humiliating life!" It was with spite and fury that these foul words spewed out of Isabella's mouth. Randolph put his cutlery down, took a sip of the shiraz --- oh, he thought, the wine was to die for: the hue was opaque, a magnificent ruby- purple; the ripe tannins saturated his tongue; and the bold, distinctive blackberry and blueberry jammy aroma and flavour was singularly spectacular! --- held the glass up to the light, put the glass down, sighed, lowered his head, looked at his wife, and put on a puzzled expression. "I know your twisted, deviant secrets, Randolph." He looked at her blankly. "Your most perverted fantasies, Randolph." He looked at her blankly. "Your sick, disgusting desires, Randolph." He looked at her blankly. Isabella was getting frustrated. Her soon-to-be ex-husband wasn't reacting as she had thought he might. Was he toying with her? Was this yet another flagrant example of his disrespect toward her? How dare he? He still looked at her blankly. Shocked at his reluctance to even slightly react to her accusations (if that's what they were, because, frankly, she had been rather vague), Isabella, with great force and determination, chewed thoroughly her last medallion. Before she swallowed the last fine morsel, she spoke to Randolph with a generous amount of food in her mouth: "Your deviant, perverted desires! You want to be a French maid! You want to be my sissy slave! You want me to cuckhold you endlessly and shove my sexual degradation of you right in your forcibly feminist face! Castration! Estrogen! Corsets! A wardrobe that a supermodel would dream of! Humiliation in public and in private! Twenty inch heels! Implants! Drug you and operate on you against your will! Triple F breasts! Pansies for Randy!" She chewed the morsel some more. "You've been reading and writing these revolting and nauseating stories on FictionMania! That website is for flaming faggots and meth addicted internet trolls!" She finally swallowed the morsel. She unexpectedly gave a little belch. It would have been a cute belch from a toddler, or even a puppy, but not from a guest in this exclusive, luxurious restaurant. Randolph shook his head reproachfully. She continued: "And those hopes and dreams of yours will irrevocably, irreversibly, socially destroy you, my little secret sissy-loving husband. Or should I say, 'my little sissy wife'? Everyone is going to know. Everyone is going to read your thoughts, your desires, your submissive fantasies! And soon, everyone is going to treat you as the ridiculous, contemptible, ersatz woman --- a sissy! --- that you so deeply crave to be!" She laughed diabolically, well, as diabolically as a woman can when she is the female lead in a femdom fetish story. He still looked at her blankly. Nina silently cleared the table. #10: CHEESE COURSE Jules silently served the tenth course. Each cheese, especially the White Stilton Gold, was delicious. The Sauternes from the Sauternais complemented it perfectly. Randolph remained silent. He pecked away at the cheese. He drank his drink. Isabella stared at him, pondered him. He must be drowning in embarrassment, she thought. Look at him: so placid on the outside, yet so turmoiled on the inside. Embarrassment, yes! Humiliation, even better! He must know that she sees him as less than a man now. His hero fa?ade has crumbled, never to be rebuilt in her eyes. Randolph to Randy to Pansy to Prissy the Sissy; he'll never make another decision of any consequence in this soon-to-be terminated marriage. How would his fellow golf club members view him? Would they want to be even near him in the locker room? Maybe some of them might perceive him to be a sexual opportunity; her randy husband getting fucked in the shower at the club! No, they'd blackball him at the next membership meeting. Ha! His fellow corporate leaders were nearly all testosterone-laden men, psychopaths them all, who exuded masculinity and had succeeded in reaching the highest rungs of the corporate world. They would despise him! A dress-loving pansy going to Davos? Never! Expulsion from the church was a foregone conclusion. Prayers to keep him at bay and to ensure his damnation were preordained. Lay pastor? Impossible: "you should be in Sunday school, you sissy!". Isabella could hear the cries, the laughter, the derision. She grinned. Her mighty, haughty husband was about to be brought down to his deserved new lowly station in life. Randolph still remained silent. He still pecked away at the cheese. He still drank his drink. Simone silently cleared the table. #11: DESSERT Louise silently served the eleventh course. Each slice of the rich, flourless chocolate cake was delicious. The ruby port wine from the Douro Valley complemented it perfectly. Randolph eventually harrumphed and put his fork down. Life, he reflected, was an exercise in discretion. Left or right. Up or down. Advance or retreat. He knew he had a choice to make here, now. He raised his head, pushed his plate aside, folded his well cared for hands in front of him on table, and began to speak to his wife in a casual manner that he had not employed toward her in years: "Are you fucking stupid? They are just stories. Remember 'Fiction' in FictionMania? I make this shit up. I have zero interest in wearing high heels and none in strolling about like a hooker. If anyone wants to put a penis gag in my mouth, then they are welcome to try; I still bench over 185 lbs everyday. The fight would make a better movie than some dog-trot video of a criminal attempt to fucking sissify me. "Furthermore, I wasn't hiding anything in plain view, you confused harridan, because I wasn't hiding anything at all." Isabella interrupted him. "They're already out there, you idiot. Your pseudonyms. I know them all! Sleazyblondenomad. Sissy Princess Patticakes. All of your stories are lurid! Vile! Blackmail is not in my vocabulary, Randolph, but I can squeeze you like one of those evil wives does in a Victor Turn story!" "Vickie Tern, my dear, is that author's name. Please be reassured," he said quite tenderly to mask the insult, "you are unworthy to be compared to any of the wives Tern created." "Even now you have the gall to deny! Randolph, you're a sissy. Given that baby resort story you wrote set in the Scottish highlands, I perhaps should ask our dear ma?tre d'h?tel if he has any diapers and a change room? Does babykins want her little pacifier?" Isabella smirked. "Maybe instead you want me to hypnotize you with forced feminism tapes each night, to reprogram you!" "Sorry to interrupt you, my dearest wife, but it's 'forced feminization ', not feminism. We're not Democrats, remember. Now, just get on with it, whatever the hell it is." "Thank you, Randolph. You get the point. I will just give you a short little French maid dress. You simply want to get under a table and blow guests during dinner. Many men's fantasies involve bondage and restraint; perhaps you prefer to be tied on the table? Or in a dog cage? I read that story too. I will attend to your leashing shortly." She smirked again. Randolph shook his head in frustration; she couldn't be that dumb, could she? "Izzie, think about it for a sec. Do the geometry and spatial dynamics. How the fuck can someone under our dinner table fellate another who is sitting at it? Maybe if they were both dwarves. It's a preposterous scene in preposterous stories. Fiction stories." He drummed his fingers. "Izzie, how many stories have you read that involve a French maid?" "All of them have a French maid, I think. Except the ones by Badwoman. Did you write that too? Couldn't you simply have those twins just kill each other off instead of bickering all the time?" Randolph replied: "Not mine and that's beside the fucking point. Look, no one we know has a slutty maid, let alone a French one. If the stories were grounded in reality, then all the fucking maids would be Latinas! And they don't put out unless they're married. Catholics! Jeez!" He golf- clapped his hands against the table. He leaned toward her and whispered, "Do you really think, for instance, that there's some well organized Sisterhood of dominatrixes out there controlling men, laughing in their faces, ridiculing them for having puny penises, and making them feel like emasculated sheep? Turning them into mindless bimbo slaves? Do you?" He quickly glanced to the side and then raised his hand to keep Nina away. Isabella frowned and merely replied, "There's several real patriarchal ones, like marriage. There could similarly be some gynocratic ones." Her reply was weak and she knew it. "Do you know how I might be placed in contact with one, Randolph?" Exasperated, he said, "No, I don't because the entire concept is stupid. Made up. Make believe." He slicked his hair back. "Fiction, woman, fiction." He realized that she might never understand the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, between fantasy and reality, between hobby-ish escapist fun writing and actual planning and designing. He decided to change tack. "Try it a different way. There are no sissies! A sissy is a McGuffin, a Maltese Falcon, a fucking plot device to tell a fucking story! That's it! They don't exist otherwise! There are no sissies! Every single shit story I ever wrote could have instead starred a fucking Loch Ness monster, or a Yeti, or a flea-ridden Sasquatch!" "Randolph!" Isabella slammed her hand against the table. She saw other guests look nervously at them. "Yes, you could have written a series of beautiful tales called 'The Saga of the Red Fox' or something. You could have written about sunshine, unicorns and rainbows. But you did neither. "No, you preferred rampant sissification themes and escapades as you pranced around our mansion I suppose wearing a little girl's summer dress and Mary Janes, pounding out these puerile verses on some pink iPad you secret away and use to contact all of your equally perverted sissy friends." Randolph tilted his head, gazed far away, and smiled. He said with pride, "Yes! I can already imagine a great one involving a unicorn, a dildo named Danny Boy, and a Shetland pony. It would start off in a factory that produces Burdizzos and then---" "Stop it!" Isabella demanded. She beckoned the service. Nina silently cleared the table. #12: MIGNARDISE Jules silently served the last course. Each miniature butter madeleine biscuit was delicious. The Saint Helena coffee complemented it perfectly. "Divorce, Randolph, divorce." Isabella used her napkin. "Knowledge of this will spread. Your reputation will be destroyed. Your friends shall desert you. Women will avoid you; we detest sissies. Your businesses will fail. Your wealth, evaporate. Randolph Cartier the Third: tabloid fodder." Isabella drew her breath. She believed her husband, rather, her sissy husband, would collapse when he heard her request: "I want more than half in exchange for my silence." Randolph looked at his wife carefully. Divorce? Over this? Really? His mind played it out. After due consideration, he forged ahead with his new relationship with his wife: "Yes, my dear, tell everyone: ruin half of your business. Yes, my dear, the many millions in our --- sorry, my --- bank accounts will simply evaporate because banks evaporate all the time: sarcasm. Yes, my dear, some women will avoid me; but other women will not because I will still have money. Yes, my dear, my friends will dash to desert me and will gladly forego the 90% discounted membership fees I facilitate at the golf club. Let's watch all that happen." Isabella no longer smiled. She sensed her moment slipping; indeed, it was 'soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance'. "It's like this, Izzie. See George over there with Midge? He's an appellate court judge. He writes under the pseudonym 'Missy Sissy Prissy Krissy'. His avatar is a Cabbage Patch doll. That story about the seventeen wicked step-mothers, the massive inheritance, and the scrawny 18 year old boy with zits and a mini-dick who gets the inheritance only if he's married by 25? George's. "And over there. Stu the surgeon. He's renowned for his bad boy to good girl stories. Tammy, his wife, strictly babyfication themes. Frankly, if I were Stu, I wouldn't sleep soundly at night. "FictionMania stories aren't written by 400-pound welfare parasites seating in dank and mouldy basements; those uneducated galoots just watch PornHub. Who writes for FictionMania? Lawyers, doctors, judges, dentists, venture capitalists, police chiefs, generals. Those sorts of people. Our kind of people. "People like me, Isabella," he lovingly said, "I write FictionMania stories. Me the WASP. Just for fun." He took her hands and kissed them. "People like us." He kissed them again. "No divorce, alright?" Isabella recognized her defeat but remained completely oblivious that she was in fact unworthy of comparison to a Tern wife. She nodded her surrender. Randolph still loved Isabella, deeply actually, but also simply differently now than he once had. He did not wish to see her despondent. She is still wacko in so many tiring ways, he thought, but she can still spark my mind. He was confident about himself. And he possessed a vivid imagination. "Izzie, in consolation for not obtaining the divorce you so mistakenly believed you wanted, I will grant you the honour of being the first to peg me with a strap-on dildo." He smiled. She glared at him. "You're joking!" He grinned mischievously at her; he hadn't in years. She liked it. She sighed; he still had 'it'. But he is also a fucking jerk. One day, yes, one day, I'll finally get him. "Okay. You're joking. But my dear husband, should you ever write a story in which the male protagonist asks his wife to do him with a strap-on, then I will assume everything you have written and everything you write is in fact a repressed, sexually perverted, kinky request to be dominated and abused as described." Randolph raised his eyebrows at her in that exceedingly arrogant WASP way, smiled as brazenly as a self-centred asshole and elitist can, and waved his hand, beckoning Henri and the bill. Simone silently cleared the table. END By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020