*Sorry, this one is not very happy, I was not in the best mood when I write it :(*
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Her vision blurred as she chopped vegetables for that night’s dinner. She had known for some time that her husband didn’t respect her much any more, but before last night she never knew just how *little* he thought of her.
They’d met ten years ago in Busan, when she was in her first year of university. He was travelling across Asia, and when his eye caught hers at the nightclub that night it was love at first sight. He was *such* a sweet man, kind, and funny, and their nights in his hostel room were unlike anything she’d ever known before. Or since.
In the space of a month she gave up a life to move across the ocean to be with him. She’d had some harsh words with her family when she did; they didn’t want her to give up her studies, move so far away to be with a man she barely knew. She didn’t care; she was in love, and their move to the States was an adventure for her. They moved to the East coast, bought a house, made a life. She could barely speak English and had no degree, so he suggested she stay home because “she deserved a life that was easy” and he didn’t want her growing old and tired at a minimum wage job for so little benefit. *And* – if they ever had kids – then already on a single income the transition would be easy. She didn’t mind. It made sense, and she loved him.
As the years passed, though, he grew more distant, more disdainful of her. Stopped encouraging her to learn better English. Stopped taking an interest in her hobbies, *her* interests. The nights out slowly stopped; “too expensive”. Trips to the beach; “no time”. The little gifts dried up. Disinterested in the things she’d show him. Eventually, all that interested him any more were his online games with strangers, his shows and movies which he watched alone. And sex. Constant sex.
Finally, after one night when she refused to suck him while he played his game…finally, out of patience, she confronted him. Where were the fun times they used to have? The little things from him that told her he thought about her, he loved her? And his cruel words, like a slap across her face; to him, she was, how did he say it in English? She was only a housewife. She was there to cook. She was there to clean. She was there to *fuck.* To him, she was a *pussy*. A *cunt.* A *rice box*.New vocabulary that night she wished she’d never learned.
She ran to their room, crying, tried to close the door against him. He caught up to her, tore off her clothes, took her on the floor as she screamed at him, tried to crawl away. Afterwards told her how good a wife she was as she lay there on the floor, nude, her eyes now dry of tears, come running out of her to pool on the carpet. Told her to clean the mess, then come to bed when she was done. Come to be *naked*, in case he wanted her again in the night. And of course, he did.
Vegetables done, she placed the knife in the sink, then sank to the floor, tears running down her face. What had her life become? When had she become just – just how *had* her husband put it in English? – “just a pussy to fuck”? She pulled her skirt off, threw it in the corner. Her underwear followed. No need to hide it away any more beneath a pretty-patterned skirt or warm pyjamas! Put it on display for the world to see! The only part of her that mattered at all: a pussy.
Food. A clean house. A *cunt*. That’s all the worth she has.
She looked at the beef, sliced thin in the container of marinade on the counter. A *pussy* sliced that. A *cunt* put it in to marinade. Numbly, she took a handful of meat in one hand, reached down, began stuffing it up between her legs, another handful, then another. When the container was empty, she reached for her cutting board, for the diced peppers, sliced onions, garlic, minced cabbage, sightlessly pushed it in, too. She was full, stretched, and still handful followed handful, heedless of the small bits that slipped out to fall to the floor, stopping only when her searching fingers found no more food on the board. Only when the last of the food was inside her, her belly distended slightly from the hard mass of the tight-packed meal, small blisters from the hot peppers urgently popping up along the lining of her *boji* did she sink numbly to the floor using one hand to hold it all in place. With her other hand she pushed at her swollen belly, feeling the pain of that packed meat, the rough edges of the cut vegetables scraping painfully along her. What did pain matter? It was, after all, only a *cunt*.
*Have to mix, have to stir, the pussy has to blend it all…* Only when the discomfort became too great, the sharp points of the vegetables digging into her, the sharp sting of the blisters too urgent, did she reach up for the handle of the frying pan above her. Brought it down onto the floor, let the sodden mass of meat and vegetables heave out of her into the pan that lay between her thighs. Standing up, she took a teaspoon from the drawer, pushed it up inside her, dug around for the last bits of beef and onion she could still feel stuck deep, deep within, let them fall into the pan with the rest. Then she slumped back to the floor, looked at the slimy, squished mess in the pan. His dinner was sorted.
*The pussy has made dinner,* she thought to herself. *Now the the pussy has to clean. What good is a pussy that doesn’t clean up the mess?*
Standing up again, she took the bottle of dish soap from the sink. *Time to clean, time to clean..,* She opened the top, and heedless of the sharp bite of the plastic spout jammed it roughly up into her, squeezed the bottle once, twice, the liquid slippery when she moved, *boji* burning with the soap. Numbly, she tossed the half-full bottle to the side, took the full brush she used to wash their dishes. Looked at it absently, noted the soft bristles, then – twisting and turning it as she did so, careless of *new* scratches from the brush – pushed it up between her legs, scrubbing her *boji*, the soap harsh in the scrapes, bristles causing the blisters within her to burn with renewed pain. The tears fell freely again as she scrubbed, but what did it matter? A *pussy* was only good for a fuck; as long as it could still take a *dick*, nothing else mattered. What else was it good for? Nothing that she could see. After a minute of scouring, she pulled the brush out of her and looked at it incuriously; bubbles brown from the marinade and red from the blisters. Bits of meat stuck in the bristles. She nodded. Good. Time to rinse.
Dropping the brush on the floor by the pan, she walked to the bathroom. Turned on the shower, took the shower head, ran it along her slit, rubbed away the bubbles that formed. Used a couple of fingers to spread herself open, let the stream of water run up inside of her, the soapy suds streaming out, the warm water a relief on the blisters that were by now a sharp burn. Felt that she couldn’t get the stream of water deep enough, decided it was long past time when she should be careful. Pushed the shower head *up* and *in*, only the slickness of the soap allowing her to get the width of the head inside of her at all. She let the rush fill her the way dinner had just minutes before, the water that gushed out around the handle soapy at first, then increasingly clear. Turned the handle so that the spray pointed up, watched the skin of her belly pulse with the water’s flow. At last, numb, she gingerly pulled the shower head out from between her legs, turned off the water, let the handle fall to the base. Sat there, wet and cold, until she heard the front door close, her husband home from work.
*The pussy has cooked,* she thought to herself, stripping off her T-shirt, dropping it beside her. *The pussy is clean.* She stood up and began to walk naked to the front hall, where she could hear her husband talking to some unknown visitor. *Now,* she thought, *it’s time for the pussy to fuck.* Pasting a sweet smile on to her face, she went to greet her husband and his guest.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/sy5i27/the_worthless_wife_fhumil