Not worth a buffalo head nickel, that piece of paper. That parchment with the scrawled signatures gave claim to no one but her. It said she could take what was his in the event of dissolution of their union.
It did not make her love him.
It did not keep her faithful to him.
It did not even make her stay in his kitchen or living room or shower.
What it gave him was the right to be cuckolded. Without it, he’d have only been broken-hearted, perhaps for a moment or two. But he had to put a ring on her finger and lay some physical claim to her body and soul. He’d showed his love for her. He’d pulled her by the hair and tossed her across the bed, and the fear and tears in her eyes had made him hard. He fucked her ass, her pussy, her mouth, and she took it. He thought she wanted it. She sucked him like she did. She’d never been one to smile much, or say the words, but she took him and screamed at the right moments…
The first time she came in late smelling of sex, he’d thrown her against a wall with his hand on her throat, and dared her to lie. She’d met his gaze with uncharacteristic defiance and said nothing.
So he fucked her.
The second time, she not only smelled of lust, she came in with smudged makeup and her blouse buttoned wrong. He heard an engine outside rev away from the house. He’d bent her double in the entranceway and looked at it running out of her before claiming again what was rightfully his. She didn’t humor him that time. She stood when he was finished, pulled her skirt down over her bum and gave him a look over her shoulder that ignited an anger unlike anything he’d ever known. She walked into the shower, as though he were nothing.
Nobody. Just a guy she let fuck her, out of pity.
He broke the Ming vase on the table and put his fist through the wall.
The third time she came in late, she was smiling.
He’d put an end to that.