Chad
Kyle was an idiot. The only advantage he had over me was that Mr. Van Buren liked his wife better.
If. . . if I could negate his one advantage, the job was sure to be mine.
But how to do that? I wrestled with the idea all afternoon, trying to deny the obvious, but I knew exactly what had to happen.
I had to figure out how to get my wife to act like Kyle’s wife.
Just in regards to work, though. Obviously.
Bitsy was the most adorable, sweetest, cutest woman in the world and I had let her do exactly what she wanted with our condo.
And in fact after regularly working 12 hour days it was kind of a relief to have someone else do all the free time planning and tell me where to go when.
That dynamic worked for us, but I was afraid Mr. Van Buren would think it was a little strange that my wife pretty much ran the show at home.
But a little. . . deception wouldn’t be that bad. Just until the promotion was in the bag.
Nothing else would change. I would make that very clear.
Shoving my lunchbox in my briefcase, I headed home. There had been a lot of long days recently. Mr. Van Buren was in talks to acquire a nearby mini golf course, batting cage, and minor league baseball team.
If you got in right with him, you could really get on the inside track of sports management in Whispering Sycamores.
“Honey?” I called out as I walked in the front of our condo. “Sweetie, we need to talk.”
It wouldn’t be so bad to ask her to take down some of these decorative cobwebs, right? Or the 7-foot-tall Frankenstein out front? Or the glass aquarium full of tarantulas?
“There’s no honey here, just the plumber fixing your sink,” a voice boomed out.
Or, rather, a squeaky cute little voice trying to sound like a big boom.
Even though I was stressed as hell, I couldn’t resist a smile.
Bitsy and I had met at a tailgating party my senior year of college. I had been sitting drinking beer and fucking around with my bros, and she was walking up and down selling homemade apple pies.
I hadn’t been intending to date anyone, let alone fall in love. But when I saw this college girl with her bouncy neon blue pigtails and her big brown eyes and that spray of freckles across her nose, in a milkmaid’s costume selling pies?
I was a goner.
Bitsy was eclectic and did her own thing. She always had, and that had been one of the hottest things about her. How could you simply not give a fuck? I didn’t know, but it was hot as hell.
Shutting the door behind me, I kicked off my wingtips and threw my jacket on the couch.
This was corny as hell and I’d never tell anyone in the world about it, but I loved all the crazy funny role-playing ideas Bitsy had.
“I don’t recall asking for a plumber,” I called out sternly, unbuttoning the top button on my collared shirt and rolling up my sleeves.
I walked into the kitchen and there was my wife, bending over the sink with a work shirt on and low-riding jeans that showed off 50% of her perky little ass.
“I can’t believe you’d come to my house to work with such inappropriate clothing on. I can see your ass crack!”
“What?” Bitsy barked, whirling around with such a huge fake moustache plastered to her face that I had to suppress an amused chortle. “Eyes up here! Not on my ass!”
“I can’t pay for a plumber,” I said, rolling up my sleeves slowly. “I don’t have any extra money. Is there any other way I can pay?”
She stroked her fake moustache thoughtfully.
“Well, there is one way I can think of. But a pretty rich boy like you, I don’t know if you have it in you to do the back-breaking labor necessary.”
Bitsy stroking her moustache almost made me lose it, and I was barely able to keep it together.
“My dear sir or madam, I assure you I can.”
“What are you offering then?”
“My body,” I growled, “to pleasure yours.”
My cock was already punching a hole in my pants when I reached her, so tiny and cute that she barely came up to my chest.
“I don’t know how I’d report that on my taxes,” Bitsy said, tapping her chin. “But I suppose I’ll give it a chance and if you are satisfactory, there will be no charge for this particular service.”
“Oh, I’ll give satisfaction,” I said, flipping her around on her belly on the counter. “If you have any stoppages, I’ll plunge them free.”
“I’m the plumber—” my wife laughed.
But she arched her back up and I sunk balls-deep into that sweet, silky goodness.
This was always the best part of my day, that feel of her wet, drippy pussy, the way her nipples were so responsive to the slightest little tweak, the way she always smelled like the most delicious apples and cinnamon, because as soon as she got home she started to bake like a madwoman.
I slid into her with long, luxurious strokes, because I liked to take my time with my wife, building up her pleasure as she writhed underneath me.
“How did you grow such a baller moustache?” I asked, gripping her ass with one hand as I watched the hypnotic sight of the veins pulsating on my cock as I drew it in and out of her slick wet heat, coming out every time wetter and hotter than before.
“Jealous?” she panted, and I laughed, my skin feeling hot and tight, and I stepped up the pace, my hand snaking around to rub her clit with two fingers until she was breaking underneath me and I unloaded a load of cum deep inside her with a wet squishy sound.
“Fuccckkk, baby, you feel so good.”
I grunted as I drained my balls, Bitsy’s thighs shaking as her little ass jiggled in my face.
“Take off that moustache,” I laughed, turning her around as she wrapped her legs around my waist.
“Never!” Bitsy, said, but I flicked it off her face and kissed her, deep and slow, loving how she felt under my fingers.
She twined her arms around my neck, and for a moment I almost got distracted by how sexy she was and flipped her over for round two.
Then I remembered what I was supposed to be talking to her about.
“Bitsy, we have to be serious for a minute,” I said as I propped her up on the counter. “You know I’m up for a big promotion at work.”
“I know you’re going to get it too,” my wife said, her eyes shining at me. “You’re obviously the smartest and best-qualified one there.”
“Well, I mean, I do have the best sales record.”
“And you shoot better than any of your friends! Plus your ass is nicer. Everyone knows that.”
I couldn’t resist a snort.
“So don’t even worry about it! Let me show you what I’ve been working on!
These little zombie cakes are so cute, so you have to tell me if people would actually pay for them.
And when your boss and his wife come to visit I’m thinking like spooky spaghetti and we can have little mushrooms and olives look like eyeballs? ”
Anxiety clawed at my throat.
“This is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about,” I said, running my hand through my hair as I took a step back. “Your cooking and stuff like that.”
“What? Oh, did you like my lunch today? I thought you would love those little vampire teeth, since I used the deviled egg recipe you really like! I think I’m getting soo close to feeling confident enough try and sell some of my own stuff. What do you think?”
“Bitsy, focus,” I said, remembering how they had all laughed at me today because of how weird my wife was. Zach had even hissed, good luck getting the promotion, bro.
“The lunches are a problem.”
“Wait, what do you mean?” she cried, and I had to steel myself against the shock in those big brown eyes.
“Now, you know I love your personality.”
My wife stilled, the smile slowly dropping off her face.
“Yes. What are you trying to say, Chadley?”
“Don’t get it wrong, I love your personality. When we’re together at home.”
Like a coward, I looked in the mirror as I pulled off my tie.
So I couldn’t see her face.
It wasn’t for very long. It was only temporary. It was just until I got the promotion.
There was silence for a moment as I pretended to fix my gelled hair.
“Oh. So I guess you mean you don’t want other people to know my personality?”
“Not—that, exactly. Just. Maybe you could tone it down a bit at that dinner.”
“In what way?”
Her normally sweet and bubbly voice was a bit frosty, but I pressed on.
“Like maybe we can take some of these Halloween decorations down. Maybe you can—like—wear something more traditional.”
“More traditional? Since when do you not like my clothes? What do you mean by traditional? Like a toga?”
There was silence for a moment as I stared over at what she’d made for supper. It looked like ravioli shaped like little sunshines.
“Not like a toga. Like a—housewife.”
More silence.
“I’m not a housewife, Chad.”
“I know you aren’t!” I said impatiently, turning away to undo the buttons on my shirt. “I’m just asking that maybe you act a little more like one so I can get this promotion. My boss is really big on traditional gender roles and having a housewife and shit like that.”
“What is a traditional wife?”
A bit hot in here, wasn’t it?
“Like. You know. Submissive. Deferential. Man’s home is his castle type of vibe. Makes everything from scratch.”
Bitsy said nothing, merely crossed her arms over her chest, her belly button ring poking out from under her shirt.
“And—about your lunches,” I plunged on.
“What about them?”
“If you want to pack me a lunch, can it just be a regular lunch?”
“Regular? I thought we both didn’t care what the hell other people thought.”
And I should have fucking stopped there, because I heard the hurt in her voice. But I didn’t.
“Maybe I do, Bitsy. I’m just asking you to act like a normal professional wife at work events. Someone who makes sense for a VP to have on his arm. Maybe I’m tired of people laughing at my weird wife who goes to work in a witch’s hat with healing crystals.”
“Oh,” she said.
“God, Bitsy. Why can’t you be more like Kyle’s wife?” I ended irritably. “That’s all I’m asking for. It’s not much is it?”