Letter to a Nothing

A wife's letter to her husband, telling him how he can expect their marriage to be in future, if it lasts into the future ...

Copyright (c) 2009 bridget707

Bridget Stacey

The envelope was marked, "To my husband - not to be read before 12.00 noon, Monday." It was time. I opened the envelope and, with trembling hands, read the neatly-typed out letter:

"Dear Nothing,

I have noticed that you have been much nicer to me recently and much easier to deal with. And you have not spurted for quite a while now, have you? You always behave much better to me when you have not spurted. You can stay that way -- until I say differently, which I may never do.

You can sleep in your little bad husband room at the top of the house and wear your girly panties and long white girly nightdresses all by yourself. You will do the chores in our house. Every evening you will cook me supper and you will make it good. You will clear everything up, all in the little flowery apron you love so much. You will do the laundry, take it all out of the machine and hang it all up, while I relax and talk to my friends on the phone, tell them my latest news about your secret habits (they are so fascinated) or do whatever else I may feel like doing. You will clean our floors, you will clean our toilets, you will keep our house pristine.

Every night you may, humbly, come into the bedroom which you used to share with me, and tuck me up in bed. You can beg for sex or for release if you like, with your pathetic penis straining against your girly panty prison. Girls' panties! What sort of a man wears girls' panties? You can beg for a spurt, but I am not allowing those anymore. I assure you I will not be touching your penis again, ever. The idea of any part of me being in contact with that horrible penis of yours fills me with revulsion. The idea of smelling or, heaven forbid, seeing your disgusting sperm makes me feel sick. The idea of your filthy sperm being anywhere near me, or my clothes, or my bed, or coming (I can hardly say it) INSIDE me makes me want to throw up.

IF you have been trying hard to please me though, you can BEG for a little squeeze or a tiny touch; and IF you beg well enough and IF you are lucky and IF I feel sorry for you, I MIGHT give your tiny repulsive thing a few yucky yuck squeezes and sick-making rubs THROUGH your girly panties, just to keep your hopes up...

Hope is important isn't it? You probably hope that I am going through a "phase" or having a "difficult time," or one of those things thoughtless men imagine about women. And you will hope that I will relent and let you spurt again. Well, why should I? You have disappointed me so much. I thought I was marrying a man; but it turns out I was marrying a perverted girls' panty-wearer, a ridiculous girly boy whose greatest thrill is to be wearing a girl's underwear. Apart from your little job, about the only use you are to me now is to save us the cost of paying someone to do the housework and the cooking.

You never try to understand me or to anticipate my needs. You only think of yourself and your misguided fantasies. I used to think we would get on well living together as man and wife, but here we are living as wimpy panty-girl and wife. If I needed a panty-wearing partner, I would have made it clear, but what I need, and want, is a proper man.

And we have been sleeping apart for two months now. After only two years in different bedrooms, I will be able to get a divorce from you anytime I want. Yes, my lawyer told me that it is perfectly possible for the two years separation to be under the same roof. Perhaps you didn't you know that, but it's true. You see, I know more than you. And have no misconception, little Nothing boy, I will get all the papers drawn up in advance for our divorce, and you will sign them. Oh yes you will, and you know you will, and I will keep them safely for when they are needed. When that time comes, I will date the documents and have them made effective anytime I wish. When that might be will depend on how I feel, on how well you behave, on how well you serve me, and on whom else I might meet.

So, if you really want to keep this marriage going for more than the 22 months remaining, you will need to do an exceptionally good job of keeping me happy, working hard for me in the house, and keeping your little salary coming into our bank account, which by the way you no longer have access to. To be truthful though, and to avoid your getting your hopes up too much, I do NOT expect you to come anywhere near the standard I need. You see, what I might be able to tolerate would be a panty-girl servant who is efficient, humble and hard-working enough to make up for the lack of a man in my marriage. And I doubt if that is even possible. But I am happy to watch you try, for a while ...

It is so much calmer at home now that you have handed over all your keys, and that you can only get into the house when I am at home and when it is convenient for me to let you in. Other times, you will just have to wait outside, like a dog, hoping to be let back in: maybe the same day, maybe in the morning, maybe another time. Maybe I am home, maybe I am not. Whichever it is, you just have to wait. Like you will have to wait to know if you will ever spurt again, or if I will ever touch your penis again, or if you will ever, ever, see me naked again.

And, if I am not at home, where might I be? With whom might I be with? What might I be doing? Even if I were at home, whom might I be with? Whatever happens, I will not be answering ANY curious questions from you, so you will never know anything unless I choose to tell you. Please do not be so impertinent as even to ask. Impertinence will merit punishment.

What punishment is left for a nothing like you? I may ignore you for days. I may refuse you entry to your own home for days. You can walk the streets without any money, without any shelter. Your own front door will be closed to you. You can sleep on the streets with those dirty street people near the railway station, unless the police move you on. You can sleep in one of the hostels for the homeless. I wonder what they are like? Smelly, I should think. I think you will discover soon, I WANT you to discover soon, so that you can live with tne consequences of disappointing your wife. I will want you to tell me all about it. I will, believe me, derive pleasure from your discomfort.

Do you feel despair? Despair is important too. Only you can decide whether you feel hope or despair. I want you to feel despair. I want you to know that there is no chance of you ever regaining my respect. I will continue to tolerate your repulsive, cringing presence as long as you work hard enough for that toleration, but you will never change my mind, I am sure. We will continue to sleep apart until the two years is up. Then my lawyer will take care of the rest. Your solitary sexual pleasure will be the privilege and frustration of an occasional teasy squeeze or rub from me, gingerly through your cotton panties or through that cheap nylon you sometimes wear.

Of course, it may turn you on to imagine me making love with my future boyfriend or my future husband. Know that I will WANT to suck their delicious cocks, that I will WANT to be fucked by them and that I will WANT to welcome their sperm deep inside me. Yes, I will open up my wet pussy for them and guide them into me. And do not think that I will wait two years for these pleasures because I will not.

I do not want you to come home this evening. Sleep in the hostel if you can find space, or sleep on the streets. Learn the loneliness that I feel being married to you. Perhaps you will gain some insight into how hard you will have to try to please me. I will let you in at 7 o'clock in the morning so that you can finish the ironing before you go to work. I am looking forward to a hot bath and sweet dreams in my big double bed.

With indifference,

Your Wife."

At 7.00am the next morning, exhausted after a sleepless night in the garden shed, I found that the front door was on the latch and let myself in, and headed for the laundry room to get the ironing done in time to get to work on time. She was upstairs obviously. Before going downstairs to the laundry room, I left on the hall table the brief reply I had written the afternoon before, in an envelope marked:

"To my darling wife."

"Darling, Please don't say these horrid things any more. I will be a better husband to you, please just give me a chance."

But would she?

THE END