One day at breakfast, that they now rarely have together, they are both eating Cheerios out of yellow bowls. Bella stares at the last grainy rings bobbing like the thoughts of her milky morning mind. Perhaps she is beginning to realize that the stability of person should come from within herself - she should look to herself.
She has begun to feel her husband does not appreciate her; worse, he takes advantage of her - she has begun to wonder if she should leave him. It is a thought that attacks her at the strangest times, when nothing is happenIng: when she is gardening, when she sits in her favourite armchair. They have been married a long time after all, too long maybe, and occasionally she can't deny considering their relationship as nothing more than a close friendship.
Do they still sleep together? Time to time.
Is there passion in their relationship? Certainly not.
Does she still make his dick hard? She sighs at the though.
Bella is known by those close to her as kind and soulful person, a person who cares deeply about her friends and the people around her.
But now she is often, too often, overrun with the desire to be bad, to be scared. To flirt, and throw it into his face.
When she has the courage to broach the subject, he constantly convinces her to stay, saying things like:
"This is the real world."
"You need to be taken care of."
"I always take of my responsibilities."
Responsibilities! Maybe you could take responsibility for making my pussy wet. She wants to scream it. But, she is too good, a nice girl. Nice girls don't talk like that.
It's all beginning to make her ill. She has a cyst the size of fist in her belly.
She is committed to her relationship, but, often, will brush her breasts against another man in a crowded shop. They are big, and get in the way, it's not her fault.
She has a wellspring of anger that she suppresses. He uses her to create what he considers 'art'. He's an 'Artist'. And she recognizes all these things.
"I'm going for a shower," she says, standing from the breakfast table.
Without looking up, he says that he needs to go to the studio, so he's going to jump in the shower first.
Maybe they are out of coffee, but without another thought she leans across the table, he is looking into his bowl, and fingers pressed tightly together she slaps him across the face.
A blow full of venom and anger, holding noting back, uncoiling it from her core. He is not a violent person, of slim build, emancipated, he falls. He looks up in fear, bewilderment in his eyes, the red welt already forming on his face.
"What the ... " he sputters.
"You," she interrupts in calm, even voice, cradling her arms around her stomach, "make me sick. Literally, I feel sick to my stomach when I look at you." She strides off, without a lookIng, without watching the effect of her words.
She feels wild, hot, and something else - sexual. In the bathroom she slips of her robe, noting the feel of the terrycloth as it slips off her body, the tiny looped fibbers rubbing pleasingly against her skin. She wonders how she could have never noticed the sweet feeling of the cloth before.
She locks the door; turns on the shower, hot as she can bare. She has no illusion of just walking out, but it's a start. She looks at her naked body in the mirror, appraising. A little tummy now, but she is no teenager. A big ass, no two ways about it, but she is told the boys like that these days. And her breasts, full and large - she knows all about the love for them. She smiles at herself, a cute, mischievous smile she has not seen in a long time.
"You're, a bad girl,'" she says to the mirror, in that tiny, cute little voice, made for play. She shoots a pout at the shadowy figure in the glass and steps under the hot water, hot as she can bare. And if you were there, I swear, you could of seen the water droplets steam off her full, curvy figure, 'cause it was so hot.
Anger is a legitimate emotion. Feel it. Let it guide you - it is present.