Free Story - I Had No Choice #1
The Final Straw.
Hi reader, this story was initially published in a much shorter form as Olivia Cuckolds. I have extensively rewritten the story and intend to post two chapters today, another on Tuesday, and then on Thursday as part of a continuing series.
I am also working on my series Hotwife Hooker, Cuckold Dilemma and A Naked Spa.
I realize that not everyone shares all kinks and that cuckolding is popular with many, not so much with others.
I publish everything I write as Kate Granger because I don’t feel that running multiple pen names with payable subscription schemes is fair - it’s just my opinion. If you invest $5 monthly in me, I want to share all my creations with you. I may need to use separate pen names to publish on Amazon, Payhip, and D2D because vanilla romance, steamy romance, and heavy erotica are challenging subgenres to combine on a book platform.
For now, at least, you all have everything I write, right here - except for my partnership with Sissitrix.
My husband slumped into our bed like it was an object in his way, sprawling all over me in the process. He babbled incoherently while stinking of booze, rolling around the mattress like a maniac who was lost. When an arm flailed around my waist, I shrugged him off me, not sure if he was trying to say hello, bid me goodnight or ask me to fuck him. It didn’t matter which; I’d had enough of Carl’s poor behavior.
After a few minutes, my husband’s hand cupped my ass cheeks. He squeezed tightly, chuckled disgustingly, and I snapped.
“You’re drunk again, Carl.”
“I’m not.”
“Please don’t do this. Sleep it off.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t you dare try fucking me when you are in such a disgraceful state.”
“Fuck off, Olivia. Who do you think you’re speaking to? Find another bed… in fact, find another fucking husband!”
Carl always reacted badly to anyone’s criticism, especially mine, after he’d had a skinful. He resorted to hurling insults and making hollow threats, even though he could barely form the words. My husband never actually reached the point of violence, and I had a good feeling he never would, but his drunken episodes were disgraceful and left me hurt and hollowed out.
His latest insult, reserved especially for me, was always the same after a drinking session with his pals. He’d tell me to leave him, and by the morning, he would feel awful, not fully remembering exactly what he’d said but knowing it was horrible and boorish. Carl would apologize endlessly for his poor behavior as he sobered up throughout the day.
I would forgive him as always. Then the next night, or in a few days, he would do the same thing again.
This time, I didn’t respond to his offensive remark, so Carl rolled around uncomfortably, groaning like a fool dangling somewhere between sleep and a drunken unconsciousness, reeking of vodka. When he settled into a drunken slumber, facing away from me, I slipped silently out of our bed, ensured my husband was covered by the duvet, and went down the hall to my favorite spare bedroom.
As a beautiful, sexy, and kind twenty-eight-year-old wife, I spent far too much time in a spare bed, lonely, unloved, and in what felt like a sexless marriage. I wanted to make love, be fucked like we had when courting, but I wasn’t having a smelly beast’s drunken semi flaccid cock inside my body.
Before nodding off, I messaged my sister, Alice.
Carl did it to me again. He’s drunk.
It was late, so I didn’t expect a reply until the morning, setting down my phone on the nightstand. I almost jumped out of my skin when it vibrated a minute later, rattling on a loose glass surface.
I’ve told you what to do, sis. Carl won’t change his behavior unless you change your reaction to it.
It’s an extreme solution.
It’s the only one if you want to fix your marriage.
I dropped off to sleep, rousing when Carl slipped under my duvet hours later. The sun broke through a crack in the bedroom curtains, so I knew it was morning, probably around 6 am by my estimation. My husband’s alcohol induced morning wood poked into my back, and, when I craned my neck to look at him, he leered back, bleary-eyed, still semi-intoxicated, stinking of alcohol and a stale body odor.
“Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Don’t be like that, Olivia.”
“I want a divorce. I’m not fucking you right now, or ever, so get showered and dressed because we need to talk.”
“You always want a divorce, Olivia.”
I sat up, swung my legs out of bed, and slipped my feet into comfortable fur-lined slippers. Carl reached out, so I arched my back and leaped up, staying out of his range as though he were typhoid Mary. I picked up my phone, reread my sister’s message from late the night before, stared at my drunken, horny husband, and decided to take her suggestion.
I thumbed a message, hit send, and hoped for the best.
Carl playfully rolled across the bed and snatched out to grab my T-shirt. I skipped sideways, determined not to be fucked by him, not even if he did it from behind and breathed in another direction.
“Stop it, Carl.”
“I do have some rights… we are married.”
“Not for long, and even married men and women can’t force their partner to have sex with them.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Olivia. Why are you being so serious?”
“Let’s talk about that. I’ll make breakfast for us so we can be civilized about it. Rest here until I call you.”
I showered, dressed, and went downstairs to make breakfast. While poaching eggs, my phone buzzed, so I checked it and was pleased to see I had a message response.
Are you sure about this, Olivia?
Yes. Positive.
Okay. I am on my way.
Thank you.
Carl was never violent, just deeply unpleasant while drunk. He forced himself on me sexually but backed off when I said no; had he not, it would have been the end of us, no matter how nice he was after the fact. He wanted to make love to me last night and now, or at least execute his drunken version of it, which offered no intimacy, love, or romance to me, only rough sex where one of us orgasmed.
For a long time, it was never my turn to be the winner in the race to an orgasm.
With breakfast cooked and served, I called my husband. He came downstairs slowly, groaning, his eyes unfocused, his expression showing signs of a splitting headache. Carl sat gingerly on a kitchen stool, slowly sobering up, every pore steaming from the aftereffects of a boozy night where hard liquor was the choice sauce for him and all his friends.
It was one too many long nights of booze, I thought - my husband looked tired, sick, and bedraggled more than usual. I pointed to his plate, feeling sympathy but not acknowledging it with a smile or other facial expression.
“Poached eggs on toast, a side of pancakes, and crispy bacon will help soak up the alcohol, and I’ve fixed you a Bloody Mary.”
“With vodka?”
“It wouldn’t be Bloody without vodka. I disapprove of your drinking, but a hair of the dog is the only thing likely to get any sense out of you right now.”
“I wasn’t that bad last night, Olivia. Was I?”
He stared at me, looking embarrassed, until he had to glance away from my fiery, angry eyes. Carl chuckled, trying to lighten our mood, shrugging me off as a neurotic wife who had made another giant fuss over no big deal. Carl couldn’t look at me, so he stabbed a pancake with his fork, then collected a bacon rasher, shoveling both into his mouth, disgustingly munching while staring defiantly at me.
“You’ve become a pig… no… a monster.”
“A monster?”
“You smell of alcohol and body odor, you snore like a beast, you are unpleasantly rude and lewd. Lovemaking is just fucking to you and the way you eat… It’s like a pig.”
“I’m starving.”
“That’s no excuse for such disgusting behavior.”
I leaned against the fridge, cradling my cappuccino made from a treasured Breville machine—my gift to myself for earning a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus last year. I’d bought Carl a Rolex watch and took us to Nice, France, on a luxury holiday - the rest went to taxes. During our vacation, my husband got drunk on all seven nights, and again on the flight home.
For a week afterwards, we still weren’t speaking.
I stared at Carl while he ate the breakfast I’d made. He was a handsome, well-sculpted gym enthusiast who could be an incredible husband when sober and willing to put in the work. He turned ladies’ heads everywhere we went, but never seemed interested in straying. I was sure he had never played away, nor would he.
I loved Carl for his fidelity and many other things, too, but I despised his drinking habit, which brought out the worst in him. He grew increasingly uncomfortable under my glare, shrugging as though posing a question about what might be my problem.
“You’re drunk all weekend, every weekend, Carl. I shouldn’t need to explain what’s wrong between us. Our marriage is dead.”
“Am I really that bad?”
“Yeah. You also drink every night, but not to the point of drunkenness - that’s not far away from having a severe alcohol problem. Give it a few more years, and you’ll be in rehab, then I’ll be free of this marriage for sure.”
“You won’t divorce me, though, surely, will you? I seem to remember you saying something about that this morning.”
I moved closer to him, ensuring he could read my expression very clearly, especially the determination in my eyes. Carl looked worried, almost terrified, because he saw my seriousness. We had been here before, on the brink of marital dissolution, but we’d always pulled back. I felt the wind blasting from deep in a chasm below, blowing in my face, fresh, with new promise if I only ended things now.
“Yeah, Carl… it suddenly feels real. Like something is different this time?”
“Yes. I feel anxious.”
“Will you give up drinking to save our marriage, Carl?”
“I don’t know, Olivia. Do I really need to?”
I rested my elbows on the granite surface of our kitchen center island, gazing deeply into his eyes. We both sat on breakfast bar stools, pondering our problem in a cantankerous chess game that Carl was definitely going to lose.
My husband gulped nervously and sipped the Bloody Mary to gain Dutch courage. It didn’t calm his trembling fingers, but the juice combination probably settled his stomach and soothed an addled brain. The vodka gradually restored Carl to life, returning to him a semblance of sense I hoped would make him act more seriously and take me at my word.
I remained silent, and fear crept further into my husband’s expression as jealousy struck him hard. He licked his dry lips and tried to speak, but he couldn’t because his throat was parched, so he sipped more Bloody Mary.
I knew what had scared the living daylights out of him. The first thing Carl thought about every time I mentioned divorce was the consequences - me finding a new mate who would make love to me all night. The thought of me strolling around hand in hand with another man, whose seed swam in my womb, drove my husband insane.
“I’m sorry for my poor behavior, Olivia.”
“You told me to fuck off last night. Find another bed, you said.”
“Surely not?”
“You told me to find another husband, too, Carl.”
“Oh fuck!”
“I want a divorce so I can do precisely that. I want a man who loves me, wants to be with me so much that he has no interest in alcohol. A man who wants to plant his seed inside my womb to make a baby, then another, and-”
“That’s enough, Olivia. You know I fucking hate when you talk like this.”
You could have heard a pin drop in our kitchen. The tension between us rose and could be cut with a knife. So, I opened the door to our backyard, letting the birdsong breeze in with fresh air to clear his vodka breath and lighten our mood.
My husband’s head slumped as the enormity of our situation struck home. Making Carl miserable gave me no pleasure, but enough was enough. My sister was right, a new approach to solving this problem was needed.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. I never meant to upset or hurt you. I love you with all my heart.”
“And yet you never show it.”
“I tried last night.”
“Love is about commitment. The lovemaking part is easiest. Do you remember how you chased after me for months before we finally dated? That’s all dried up, and romance is absent from our relationship.”
Thinking we’d moved past his infraction, my husband smiled, stood, and walked over to our coffee machine. He half turned, looked at me, and pointed to his cup, raising an eyebrow to ask if I wanted another, but I shook my head. After a minute, he returned to the kitchen stool with a steaming hot double espresso, sliding the remaining half glass of Bloody Mary aside like he was making a sacrifice.
I snorted and laughed at my husband’s pathetic tribute.
“You’ll be back on the booze by tonight.”
“I love you, Olivia, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Then please divorce me, honey. Leave me amicably with this house that I paid for. We can split our other assets, most of which I paid for, and then we can remain friends.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You don’t appreciate me. In many ways, you have already lost me. I don’t love you like I did last month, last year, or the day we married. Love withers when you starve it.”
“I can change, Olivia.”
“You’ve altogether taken me for granted since we got married. You chased me frantically in courtship, even though I was engaged to Tom, and now you have put a ring on my finger, you couldn’t care less.”
“I do care.”
“Yes, now you do, when you think what you have will be taken away. If I forgive you now, you’ll show humility for a few hours, make me a cup of coffee, and be nice, but the monster inside you is ravenous and demanding. You can’t control it.”
My husband considered my point for a long time, likely remembering our great times when he had desperately courted me and we fell in love. I had pushed Carl away for months, forcing his wooing to become more frantic and outrageous. Then, one day, on a beach at sunset while we strolled together, I acquiesced and kissed him for the first time.
After that day, Carl was an absolute gentleman, doing whatever he could to secure a soulmate, but his efforts were short-lived. They severely waned once I wore his gold band, which now felt like an anchor dragging me down.
“You once desired me so much, you would pluck the stars from the sky and make me a necklace from them, then dance with me in the moonlight.”
“Yeah, and I got you, too, Olivia. You loved me more than Tom. I won.”
My husband snapped back. He was probably staring into the reality of losing me, without realizing that what we had left was a weakened strand of what was once a strong rope. I remained calm and compassionate, desperate to guide us through a minefield without blowing up.
“Yeah, you did win me, and that’s all true, but now you’ll lose me forever, because I don’t want to be your wife. I don’t want to share my DNA with you by having children. Let that sink in, please.”
“Why the fuck don’t you want to be my wife?”
“Because you are a drunk who doesn’t cherish or honor me. You mistreat me all day, every day, and I still pull the duvet over you to make sure you don’t get cold when I leave your drunken bed. Even though you tell me to fuck off, I still make breakfast for you just to help make you feel better.”
I felt like crying, and tears filled my eyes to the rims. I choked back a vigorous bout of sobbing, turning away so I could secretly use a tissue to dab my cheeks.
“I want a divorce.”
Next Chapter:
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Th way you describe the slow realising that Olivia was serious and he had in her eyes and in reality become a drunken slob who she no longer wanted to be married to brilliant
What a treat on a rainy Saturday afternoon Kate. I don’t know where you get the inspiration for all your plots, but I’m so glad you do. You feed all my passions, both erotic and otherwise. I just love your work.