Chapter 1
“Matthew, I found your backpack!” My voice
carried up the stairs to my youngest son who was running behind, as
usual.
“Thanks mom.” He beamed at me as he came
bounding down from his room, his silver eyes sparkling in his
tanned face topped with his father’s ash brown hair; I never held
it against him that he looked exactly like the bastard.
“You know,” I leaned over to zip up his coat,
“if you put it where you were supposed to you wouldn’t need me to
find it.”
His smile was quick to come, I adored all
three of my children and they knew it. “I know. Is my lunch in
there?” He slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Yep, strawberry BP&J no crust, just the
way you like.” I planted a small kiss on his cheek as he thanked me
for the sandwich.
Standing to watch him catch the bus, pulling
in front of our modest home to wait for him, he ran out across the
yard and passed our apple trees to board the yellow monster. Waving
to Ms. Sanders as she let him get on I smiled, happy the last of my
offspring were out of the house and at school. It was time for my
real day to begin.
The front door clicked shut, cutting off the
sound of the bus’ diesel engine as it drove away. Stepping away
from it, I began untying the straps of my pink and white checked
apron as I walked through the quiet home to my room. Aprons were a
common sight on me whenever I was at home; the pink one I had put
on that morning for my regular dish routine. It’s not like I was
some stepford wife—you actually have to be wife to be that—but I
did enjoy wearing an apron when I cleaned and cooked. They kept my
clothes from getting messy and helped to perpetrate an image I
upheld in my close community; one of a happy single mother that
enjoyed BBQ’s, hosting sleepovers for her teen daughter and
son—separately of course—and play dates with the youngest. There was truth in the image, don’t get me wrong I loved all of
those things, but there was another side of me that my
neighbors—and family—didn’t know.
Once in my room I tossed the apron in the
hamper and stripped out of my purple t-shirt and blue-jeans, as
well as my cotton bra and non-matching panties. My clothes joined
the apron in the hamper as I entered the master bathroom. Catching
a glimpse of myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but feel a small
thrill at the sight of my body; toned and tan with high tits only
money could buy.
My body was what I called my “payment” from
the divorce, well that and technically the house I bought. My
ex-husband agreed to the amount of money I demanded, not knowing or
caring what I would do with it, when I promised not to sue for half
his income and only collect child support and not alimony from him
in the future.
A small laugh escaped my full lips as I
entered the shower to wash my thick honey-red hair, a rich natural
color handed down from my mother, and supple curves. Every time I
viewed my body I was reminded of the first time my ex husband saw
me following the divorce—finally visiting his children after almost
a year. The fat ass he complained about, lazy disgusting slob of a
wife that was only good for cooking and stuffing her fat face—a
size sixteen isn’t that big folks—had turned into a size five. The
fact my new figure was even better than the figure on his new woman
he had with him at the time had made the reveal even sweeter. Of
course that woman, and every one since, didn’t last long.
I hope he enjoyed the crow he ate that day.
The pain he put me through, the constant berating with hateful
words, the hurtful sexual acts he would make me do—what he called
his revenge for having to fuck me—made me want my own form of
revenge; to be what he wanted when he could no longer have me. As I
lathered my body, feeling the full double-d breasts I had, firm
like no thirty-eight year old woman’s tits should be, I relished in
the fact that I alone decided who enjoyed it now.
My hand traveled down to my
“Matthew, I found your backpack!” My voice
carried up the stairs to my youngest son who was running behind, as
usual.
“Thanks mom.” He beamed at me as he came
bounding down from his room, his silver eyes sparkling in his
tanned face topped with his father’s ash brown hair; I never held
it against him that he looked exactly like the bastard.
“You know,” I leaned over to zip up his coat,
“if you put it where you were supposed to you wouldn’t need me to
find it.”
His smile was quick to come, I adored all
three of my children and they knew it. “I know. Is my lunch in
there?” He slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Yep, strawberry BP&J no crust, just the
way you like.” I planted a small kiss on his cheek as he thanked me
for the sandwich.
Standing to watch him catch the bus, pulling
in front of our modest home to wait for him, he ran out across the
yard and passed our apple trees to board the yellow monster. Waving
to Ms. Sanders as she let him get on I smiled, happy the last of my
offspring were out of the house and at school. It was time for my
real day to begin.
The front door clicked shut, cutting off the
sound of the bus’ diesel engine as it drove away. Stepping away
from it, I began untying the straps of my pink and white checked
apron as I walked through the quiet home to my room. Aprons were a
common sight on me whenever I was at home; the pink one I had put
on that morning for my regular dish routine. It’s not like I was
some stepford wife—you actually have to be wife to be that—but I
did enjoy wearing an apron when I cleaned and cooked. They kept my
clothes from getting messy and helped to perpetrate an image I
upheld in my close community; one of a happy single mother that
enjoyed BBQ’s, hosting sleepovers for her teen daughter and
son—separately of course—and play dates with the youngest. There was truth in the image, don’t get me wrong I loved all of
those things, but there was another side of me that my
neighbors—and family—didn’t know.
Once in my room I tossed the apron in the
hamper and stripped out of my purple t-shirt and blue-jeans, as
well as my cotton bra and non-matching panties. My clothes joined
the apron in the hamper as I entered the master bathroom. Catching
a glimpse of myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but feel a small
thrill at the sight of my body; toned and tan with high tits only
money could buy.
My body was what I called my “payment” from
the divorce, well that and technically the house I bought. My
ex-husband agreed to the amount of money I demanded, not knowing or
caring what I would do with it, when I promised not to sue for half
his income and only collect child support and not alimony from him
in the future.
A small laugh escaped my full lips as I
entered the shower to wash my thick honey-red hair, a rich natural
color handed down from my mother, and supple curves. Every time I
viewed my body I was reminded of the first time my ex husband saw
me following the divorce—finally visiting his children after almost
a year. The fat ass he complained about, lazy disgusting slob of a
wife that was only good for cooking and stuffing her fat face—a
size sixteen isn’t that big folks—had turned into a size five. The
fact my new figure was even better than the figure on his new woman
he had with him at the time had made the reveal even sweeter. Of
course that woman, and every one since, didn’t last long.
I hope he enjoyed the crow he ate that day.
The pain he put me through, the constant berating with hateful
words, the hurtful sexual acts he would make me do—what he called
his revenge for having to fuck me—made me want my own form of
revenge; to be what he wanted when he could no longer have me. As I
lathered my body, feeling the full double-d breasts I had, firm
like no thirty-eight year old woman’s tits should be, I relished in
the fact that I alone decided who enjoyed it now.
My hand traveled down to my
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