Diary of a sad, mad man

December 31, 2017, 11:13 p.m.

 

 

Dear diary,

 

In 47 minutes, it’ll be 2018. Happy New Year? Not for poor little me.

 

I’ll be ringing it in alone, pining away like a lovesick dork while my wife and her boyfriend celebrate at the hottest nightclub in town.

 

Next year I’ll have her to myself. I’ll poison his ass. Maybe pay a hitman. He’ll be gone and she’ll be mine.

 

Bullshit. I won’t do it. I don’t have the balls.

 

She’ll never be mine.

 

Look at me, scribbling down my thoughts like a teenage girl. This whole diary thing feels weird. Yeah, I’ve got a shitty life; why write about it? Do I really want to record for posterity how stupid I am for agreeing to this ridiculous fucking marriage arrangement?

 

I’m embarrassed at what I’ve become. I try not to think about it. Maybe that’s the problem; maybe I should think about it. Hopefully starting this journal will be my first step toward piecing myself back together. I need to figure out who I am and where I want to be.

 

So then ... who am I?

 

I imagine out in the real world, people see me as Lou Krupp, the quiet, chubby stockbroker with a bald spot, a crooked front tooth and a soothsayer’s knack for predicting tech trends. Because I’m so good at my job, I’ve earned tremendous respect at the Rowland-Davis brokerage firm, and on a daily basis I entertain a string of clients, many of them powerful people, who sit at my knee as I explain how I’m going to make them a shit-pot full of money.

 

The mask disappears when I get home. Behind drawn curtains I’m a scared, mistreated little rodent.

 

It’s a shameful existence. I do it for her. So, I say.

 

If Sigmund Freud came back to life, he’d probably tell me I have a Jesus complex for allowing Dawn and Terrance to treat me like they do. Could be. Why else would I endure this abuse?

 

Am I nailing myself to the cross? Making myself a martyr? Do I have mommy-daddy issues? Why am I so crazy about this girl who wipes her ass with my soul like it’s dollar store toilet paper?

 

There are no answers. Through the haze of confusion and pain, the only certainty is my burning love. It doesn’t make sense but it feels so right.

 

If only she would stop breaking my heart. I know she can’t help it but it’s destroying me.

 

Dawn has a divine soul but it’s buried under thick layers of scar tissue. She had a brutal childhood — her stepdad molested her and her mom was too stoned to give a shit. Dawn ran away from home at age 16 and started stripping for a sleazy club owner who didn’t ask for ID. More than a decade later she’s still trying to get her head screwed on straight.

 

Right now, my wife is in a dark place; she’s doing drugs, shacking up with a loudmouthed loser and wallowing in depravity. I know I can help her change when she’s ready but she’s still got a long way to go.

 

I keep thinking she’ll eventually see the light. When she does, I’ll be there for her. My perseverance will pay off. She’ll come to realize Terrance’s a bum and I’m the one for her.

 

Until then, I’ll cry myself to sleep every night.

 

It’s getting to me. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’m trying to hold it together because I know if I fall apart and become a liability, she’ll toss me out on my ass. And as bad as things are, I can’t bear the thought of living without my Dawn … never being in the same room with her … never smelling her shampoo …

 

So, for the first time in my life, I’m keeping a diary. My New Year’s resolution is to log at least one entry every day in 2018. Maybe it’ll help. Who knows? I’ve got to try something.

 

Since I’m writing down what’s on my mind, I’ll focus on my reason for being, the former Miss Dawn Cieriewski, known professionally as Tiffany Wilde before she retired three years ago and became my wife.

 

Yeah, right, my wife. What a joke. Who am I kidding? I’m head-over-heels for a low-class, self-centered ex-stripper who married me for my money.

 

She’s a greedy cunt.

 

She walks all over me.

 

I can’t live without her.

 

Some people are hooked on heroin. Some crave cocaine. Dawn’s my drug. I know she’s bad for me but I just can’t quit her.

 

I dream up scenarios where my devotion wins her over, she finally dumps Terrance and we skip off into the sunset together. In moments of clarity, I realize this fantasy is just an excuse to keep feeding my unhealthy addiction while pretending my intentions are noble.

 

There’s nothing honorable about letting Dawn and Terrance exploit and humiliate me. I’m in a dysfunctional, abusive relationship and I’m too much of a weakling to leave.

 

I vacillate between feeling sorry for myself and seething with resentment. I plot how to murder the son of a bitch who replaced me in my wife’s bed. I’ve killed him so many ways. Strangled him. Beat him with a Louisville Slugger. Used a chainsaw. Then I wake up and remember what a coward I am.

 

Sigh. It’s 11:21. I guess I could go upstairs and watch one of the countdown-to-midnight extravaganzas on TV, but I don’t need a reminder that everyone other than my sorry ass is out having a good time.

 

Dawn and Terrance are hanging with the hip crowd at the Rapture New Year’s Eve Blowout. Dawn’s probably nestled in her lover’s arms, sipping $400-a-bottle champagne. I’m the furthest thing from her mind right now.

 

Why should she bother thinking about me? I’m just her husband. I’m just the guy paying for everything tonight … the guy who rescued her from that degrading strip club … the schmuck who handed her a life of luxury.

 

I love her unconditionally; why should she honor me by loving me back?

 

She’s got my money. She’s got Terrance.

 

I get shit.

 

I look around my cramped living quarters and my pathetic lot sinks in. How did I let this happen? It’s my house and I’m sleeping in the damn basement. I trudge off to work every morning and bust my ass while they lounge around all day getting high, fucking, and making messes for me to clean. I pay the tab for them to smoke weed, snort coke, dress sharp and go to trendy clubs like Rapture. Terrance’s lame rock band has all the latest top-of-the-line equipment, courtesy of my Visa Platinum card.

 

They never say thanks. No matter what I do for them it’s not enough.

 

I try telling myself it’s worth it, because at least Dawn is still in my life. The alternative is being banished from her world forever. That almost happened two years ago on February 3 2015, the day she told me she was dumping me for Terrance.

 

We’d only been married a year, but she had fucked him under my nose from almost the beginning. “Girls’ night out” often lasted until past 4 a.m. Sometimes she’d be gone overnight, never bothering to call. Or I’d get home from work and find Marlboro butts in the ashtrays, and the bed would look like the Bears and Packers had scrimmaged on it.

 

She was daring me to say something, testing how far she could push me. I just kept my mouth shut, emptied the ashtrays and changed the sheets while she flashed that little smirk of hers.

 

My submission emboldened her. One evening as she was putting on makeup, preparing for yet another “girls’ night out,” she told me a man would be stopping by.

 

“Terrance’s the designated driver. I plan on doing some serious drinking, so he’s taking me to the bar and driving me home.” She bared her teeth. “He’s a real good driver.”

 

Her brow arched as she twirled her eyeliner pencil, watching my reaction through the mirror.

 

I blinked. “Um, okay, if you’re gonna drink it’s probably best to have someone to drive.” Head hung low, I retreated to the bedroom.

 

He came in a few minutes later. I strained my ears, catching snippets of deep chuckles and girlish giggles. Then the front door slammed shut and they were gone.

 

I lay down and sobbed. My pillow was soaked.

 

Terrance dropped her off around 3:30 a.m. They sat in the driveway seemingly for hours before Dawn finally staggered inside. As she approached the bedroom I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. She fell onto the mattress smelling of beer, cologne, sweat and cum. Within seconds she was snoring. I stared at the back of her head until I drifted off.

 

The next morning, I made Sunday breakfast as usual.

 

“Did you have fun at the bar with … with Stephanie and Tammy?” I forced a smile and served up a plate of bacon, eggs and hash browns.

 

She chuckled. “Oh yeah, it was slamming.” She picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled. “At the club, I mean. You know: Slamming.” She shimmied in her seat. “Um, um, um! Yeah, Lou, I had me a great time — and I got home in one piece because Terrance knows how to DRIVE.”

 

I nodded and shuffled off to the kitchen. I was bending over backward to ignore her little digs, petrified she’d leave me if I confronted her.

 

Dawn’s “designated driver” regularly stopped by the house after that. I tried to avoid him, usually cowering in the bedroom when the dreaded knock came. We briefly crossed paths a few times, but never spoke.

 

The first time we met, he sized me up with a sneer as I nodded at him and ducked into the bedroom. I couldn’t have said anything if I’d wanted to because my throat muscles were paralyzed. While he and my wife visited in the living room I sat on the bed, head in hands, knowing I was no match for the tall, broad-shouldered Adonis. I heard flirtatious peals of laughter and cursed myself for not being strong enough to go out there and reclaim my wife.

 

What am I talking about? There was nothing to reclaim; she never belonged to me in the first place.

 

Early in our relationship, my once-a-month sexual encounters with Dawn consisted of two minutes of me humping her while she lay there with a bored look on her face. She insisted I wear two condoms (in case one broke, she said), and she didn’t want me touching or kissing her.

 

“Just get it over with,” she’d say.

 

She once returned a text message while I was inside her, and when I complained she giggled.

 

“Hang on, this is important.” She held up a finger, staring at her phone. My wife returned a few texts, snickering the whole time at some private joke, before finally putting her phone down and saying, “okay, go ahead. And hurry up.”

 

I’d seen how sensual she could be during her dance routines at Trixxster’s Lounge but she certainly never shared that part of herself with me. Not even a sliver.

 

She started her affair with Terrance a few months after the wedding and intimacy between us became virtually nonexistent. Every blue moon if she was feeling horny, she’d let me go down on her. Afterward I’d pull my pud while staring longingly at her pussy. She’d either watch TV or doze off while I gave myself my lonely little orgasm.

 

By then, intercourse was out of the question. The few times I tried to mount her she crinkled her nose and pushed me away as if I were dipped in shit. So, I stopped trying.

 

Since I wasn’t satisfying Dawn sexually, I tripped all over myself catering to her, desperate to prove I could still be useful. I had always handled most of the chores but I really put my back into it, working to keep the house spotless. I gave her foot massages nearly every night after preparing and serving dinner. I sucked up to her more than usual, grinning and nodding at everything she said.

 

It wasn’t enough. One evening when I got home from work, she announced she was leaving me for Terrance. I wailed. I hyperventilated. I dropped to my knees with my hands clasped in front of me.

 

“Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything. I don’t mind if you’re seeing him. You can keep seeing him; all I want is for you to be happy. Dawn, I’m begging you … please — please.”

 

Her lip curled. “You’re a fucking loser, I swear to God.” With a flip of her hair, she stomped out the house.

 

I threw up on the carpet.

 

She was gone three days without picking up the phone or returning my texts. They were the worst three days of my life. I told my boss I had the flu and stayed home, bawling nonstop. I was sure she’d left me for good. Stupid, dangerous thoughts infiltrated my headspace — like maybe I didn’t want to live without her.

 

On the fourth day, a glorious Sunday afternoon, a miracle occurred: Dawn sauntered through the front door, plopped onto the couch and planted a booted foot on the coffee table.

 

My mouth went dry. I licked my lips. “Oh my God, I-I’m so glad you’re home. I was so worried, and I was —”

 

Dawn showed me her palm. “Stop talking. You need to shut the fuck up and listen.”

 

She slipped a pack of Newport from her purse and shook one loose.

 

“First of all, I’m in love with Terrance, straight up. We been in love for a while now. But you knew that already. Didn’t you?”

 

A squeaky vowel caught in my throat.

 

She scoffed. “You got no balls, Lou. I need a man with balls. Terrance’s got balls. He don’t beg like you do — he knows what he wants and he takes it. That’s what a man does, in case you were wondering. I love him, and he loves me, and we’re tired of not being together. So, he’s moving in here.”

 

I lowered my eyes. She lit her cigarette, exhaled and continued:

 

“But me and Terrance was talking about it, and there might be a way to make this work.”

 

My head popped up. Make it work? She wants to make it work? Can it be?

 

She took a drag, puckered her lips and blew a shot of smoke in my face.

 

“When you was down on your knees the other day you said you’d do anything if I stuck around. Anything to make me happy; I could keep on seeing Terrance. You remember that?” She flicked ashes on the carpet.

 

Tears filled my eyes. “Of course, I remember it, and I meant it, too. Please, Dawn, I’ll do anything … I don’t care … please … all I want is for you to be happy. Please … just give me a chance … I’ll never let you down, please, I’ll show you —”

 

“Jesus Christ, would you stop fucking whining? I told you to shut the fuck up and listen, but you’re too goddamn stupid to do that.” She took another hit and puffed at the ceiling.

 

“Now, then, if you mean it, then maybe we don’t need to actually get a divorce. You can stay here with me and Terrance. Not in the bedroom, obviously; you get the guest room. And just keep on doing what you been doing — cleaning the house, and doing my laundry and shit — only you’ll be doing Terrance’s laundry, too.

 

“It’ll be like a job,” she continued. “Terrance will be your boss. Both of us will. You’ll work for us. I mean, you won’t get paid or nothing. But that’s what it’ll be like. He can quit the warehouse and concentrate on the band; you’ll keep on taking care of the bills and shit, like you already do.

 

“Or, if you want …” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “I’ll go ahead and file the divorce papers, and you’ll move the fuck out, because I’ll take this house and half of everything else you got — and you know I will. Either way, Terrance’s moving in. If you want to stay married to me, that’s how it’s gonna be, straight up.”

 

I couldn’t process this. Her words rattled around in my head: Chores … she wants me to do chores … for her and … him. Ugh, him … moving in … or she’ll leave me … oh my God … don’t leave me … please … don’t …

 

“This ain’t fucking Jeopardy,” my wife spat, sending my thoughts scattering. “I ain’t waiting 20 minutes while you sit there with a stupid look on your face. Say something.”

 

I blinked. “I’m sorry. Um, okay. Okay.”

 

“Okay what? Speak up.”

 

“Okay, if that’s what you want.”

 

“If what’s what I want?”

 

“If … um … if you want Terrance to … to move in … I’ll do my best to make you happy.”

 

“Make us both happy.”

 

“Make you … make you both happy.”

 

“And Terrance will be your boss.”

 

I shut my eyes. “Terrance … will … be my boss.”

 

She sneered and dabbed out her cigarette. “Good. Now, go away while I call my baby.”

 

That was it. My deal with the devil was sealed. I got what I wanted — Dawn in my life — but at what cost? It’s the oldest trick in Satan’s backpack, the Faustian bargain, but I was so scared of losing her I signed the contract without a second thought.

 

When Dawn got off the phone, she told me to rent a U-Haul truck the next morning and report to Terrance’s apartment to help him move. I was terrified at the prospect of facing her lover. From my brief encounters with him he seemed like a smug asshole, and not all that bright. Then again, Dawn isn’t exactly a Rhodes Scholar, either, but her movie-star looks and heavenly soul more than make up for it.

 

I slept in the guest room that night, twisting, turning, crying, and wondering if I’d ever share my wife’s bed again. In the morning I phoned my boss and told him I couldn’t shake the flu. I had called in sick Thursday and Friday, so it was stretching it to say I was still unable to drag my ass out of bed on Monday, but since I rarely miss work, the boss didn’t question me.

 

After I hung up the phone, I ventured out of the guest room into the hallway. The master bedroom door was ajar and I could see the sleeping angel. She looked so peaceful lying in the fetal position, hugging her pillow. A lump formed in my throat as I realized she’d soon be cuddling with another man in that bed. I stood in the hallway adoring her for as long as I dared before pulling on my coat and trooping out into the cold.

 

The nearest U-Haul dealer was at an IGA store. I felt ashamed to look the clerk in the eye as I asked for a 17-foot truck.

 

He nodded. “Where you moving to?”

 

I fought the urge to puke. “Um, just across town.”

 

He must’ve sensed I wasn’t in the mood for small talk because he wrote up my order without further comment. I stood there, hands in pockets, swimming in shame. There was no way this guy could’ve suspected why I was renting the truck, but it felt like the whole world knew.

 

On the drive to Terrance’s place I had a tough time gripping the steering wheel because my hands were sweaty and shaking. I parked the rig in the lot outside Terrance’s building and stood near his unit for a good 10 minutes, trying to slow down my breathing. Finally, I worked up the courage to knock.

 

The door swung open and Terrance’s muscular frame filled the entranceway. “Come on in,” he said in his all-too-familiar baritone as he moved aside. I slipped past him into his messy apartment.

 

He pushed the door shut. Before I could take another step, he clapped my shoulder.

 

“Listen, we need to get one thing straight from the get-go.” He hovered over me, six inches taller, glaring down.

 

“Dawn is mine. You don’t touch her, you don’t fucking look at her. I know you’re technically still married, but she’s done with your ass. We’re only letting you stay with us because she said you’d pay all the bills and clean the house and shit. She said you’d be, like, our toady. Is that right?”

 

I forced my mouth to move: “Uh, yeah.”

 

He shook his head. “You’re about a spineless mother-fucker. Dude, ain’t you got no self-respect? She don’t love you.”

 

I swallowed. “I … I just want her to be happy.”

 

“Well, then, we got something in common because I want her to be happy, too. And you know what makes her happy? Me. You can stay and be our little bitch if you want to, but I catch you looking at her the wrong way I’ll throw your fucking ass out on the sidewalk. You got a problem with that?”

 

My lips trembled. I managed to whisper “no.”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. An old-ass wimp like you don’t deserve a girl like her. She says you make a shitload of money; you’re, like, some kind of stocks and bonds dude or some shit. How much you make a year?”

 

“Uh … well, it depends on the market … um, anywhere from $350-400 thousand.”

 

“Yeah?” He cocked his head. “That’s good. Yep, this whole thing just might work out — as long as you remember what’s what. Just pretend I’m your boss from now on because I am. Congratulations. You got the job. You can be me and Dawn’s little bitch. Starting pay: Zero dollars an hour.”

 

I stood there gobsmacked as Terrance fell back onto the couch and picked up his X-Box remote. “Well, get to work, dumb-ass. Start in the bedroom; there’s boxes in there. Pack up all my shit and put it in the U-Haul. Don’t touch my guitar, though. I’ll take that.” He snapped his fingers. “Go on, now.”

 

My ears were red as I turned to obey. It had taken him less than two seconds to establish dominance, as I fell naturally into my beta role. It was a primal, frightening rush. I realized for the first time who I really was. Terrance was right. I have no business being with Dawn. Women like her crave men like him — not short, fat, bald, crooked-toothed dweebs like me.

 

I boxed up all Terrance’s belongings, then made trip after trip lugging armloads from the apartment to the U-Haul while he sat on his ass in the living room playing video games and smoking weed. He didn’t offer to help and I was too scared to ask.

 

After his boxes were stacked in the truck I tackled the heavy stuff. I struggled to push an 18-inch subwoofer cabinet through the living room while he lay on the couch talking on the phone. I knew right away it was my wife on the line.

 

“Oh, yeah, babe, he’s a good worker — for being so out of shape.” He toked a joint, idly watching me wriggle the heavy speaker across the floor. I bumped it on the door frame.

 

“Careful, fuck-face,” Terrance snapped at me before telling Dawn: “If he scratches my equipment I’m gonna be pissed.”

 

Dawn said something that made him laugh. He smirked at me.

 

“Your wife says she wants to watch while I kick your ass. She said it would make her horny.”

 

I forced a grin, trying to play it off as a joke, and concentrated on moving the speaker. Terrance continued romancing Dawn while I heaved and sweated and finally managed to get the subwoofer out of the apartment and onto the truck.

 

It took about three hours to pack and load everything. When the apartment was empty other than the furniture and appliances he was leaving behind, Terrance told me to clean up so he could get his security deposit back.

 

“I’m headed to my new crib so I can be with my sexy new roommate,” he said. “My girl’s hot, ain’t she?”

 

I croaked: “Yes, she’s … she’s very beautiful.”

 

“Damn right she is.” Terrance jerked his thumb. “Now, get this place clean and then move all my shit into the house. I’ll see you over there”

 

My bottom lip quivered as he gripped his guitar case and strode away.

 

After tidying the apartment I drove home, physically and emotionally wrung out, knowing I had a lot more hard work and heartache ahead of me.

 

Dawn supervised the unpacking while Terrance watched TV. I again had to carry everything myself. Terrance’s music equipment went in the garage. I choked up as I folded his underwear and arranged it in the top drawer of my old dresser in the master bedroom. The permanence of the situation really sank in when I set up his toiletries and toothbrush next to Dawn’s on the master bathroom sink.

 

That night, I cooked dinner while the lovebirds relaxed and watched television. Seeing them together broke me. I cried into the stir-fry. I wanted them to taste my tears.

 

I reported dinner was ready, and they drifted into the dining room hand-in-hand. Dawn stopped and gestured toward the table’s three place-settings.

 

“What the fuck is this? I told you this was a job for you. You’re, like, our waiter; you don’t eat with us. Take that fucking plate away and go stand in the kitchen — but keep checking back to see if we need anything.”

 

As I scurried away, Dawn told her lover: “Stupid fuck; thought he was gonna sit down with us. He just don’t get it.”

 

Dinner lasted nearly an hour, and the whole time I stood in the kitchen feeling like a sad fool. I limped into the dining room every few minutes to see if they needed refills, per Dawn’s instructions. It had been an excruciating day moving Terrance into our house. My feet throbbed and my back was killing me. I longed to sit down. But Dawn had told me to stand, so I toughed it out.

 

I kept reminding myself: If Dawn wants to treat me this way, I should rejoice. At least I’m fulfilling her wishes, which means I have a place in her life. Her cruelty isn’t her fault. Anyone would have major problems if they’d had a childhood like hers. She still wants me around; that’s the main thing. I can’t save her if she’s out of my life.

 

Dawn and Terrance enjoyed post-meal cigarettes before moving to the living room. I was clearing the dinner table when she called: “When you’re done with the dishes, come do my feet.”

 

I’d given my wife dozens of foot massages but it was embarrassing to humble myself that way in front of her boyfriend.

 

“He does this great,” Dawn told Terrance as I lathered her left foot with lotion. She brushed my nose with her right big toe and lit a joint. “When you’re done with me, do Terrance.”

 

So I did. His manly feet were unsettling. He kept me at it for more than an hour while he cuddled with my wife, gazing at the TV through half-closed, stoned eyes.

 

“This is great.” He sighed as I worked lotion into his heel. “It’s good to have a flunky around.”

 

Dawn smacked her lips. “I got his ass trained.” She stared at me. “Don’t I? You’ll do anything for me, won’t you?”

 

I blinked back tears. “Yes, Dawn, I want you to be happy.”

 

“What about my baby?” She nuzzled her cheek on Terrance’s shoulder. “Don’t you want him to be happy too?”

 

I bit my lip. “Yes, I just want you both to be happy.”

 

Terrance nudged my hands with his foot. “What would make me happy right now is if you’d shut the fuck up so I can hear the TV. Get back on them toes.”

 

I was finally dismissed when they went to bed just before 2 a.m. I plodded to the guest room, set the alarm for 5:45 and hit the sack, completely wiped out. I closed my eyes but Dawn’s squeals from the master bedroom kept me awake.

 

The next morning I returned to my brokerage firm. I was bleary-eyed and exhausted, which gave me good cover for my flu story. Everyone stayed away, thinking I’d infect them.

 

I got home from work a few minutes after 6. The house was a complete disaster. I hung my coat in the closet and started cleaning.

 

My new life had begun.

 

It was downhill from there.

 

About a week after moving in, Terrance commandeered the guest room. I was serving my superiors breakfast in bed when he broke the news by imitating Lumbergh from the movie “Office Space.”

 

“Yeah … I’m gonna need you to go ahead and move your shit down to the basement. I’m converting the guest room into my X-Box cave, so you’re gonna need to get the fuck out — and if you could get that done today, that’d be great. M’kay? Thanks a bunch.”

 

I bowed my head while Dawn cracked up.

 

After doing the breakfast dishes, I tried to cram all my stuff into the basement utility room but the space was too small. Dawn made me throw out everything that didn’t fit.

 

My wife never was warm and fuzzy with me, but since Terrance moved in she treats me with open disdain. She rarely talks to me unless it’s filtered through a sneer. She’s lost whatever tiny bit of respect she had for me, because what kind of man would agree to this arrangement?

 

Our New World Order household isn’t easy, but it didn’t take long to learn the routine. Most nights when I get home from work the house is a mess. They just throw shit everywhere, flick ashes on the floor and leave dirty dishes in every room. The toilets are often unflushed, with droplets of Terrance’s piss splattered on the toilet rim and floor tiles. Sometimes, turds are left floating in the water.

 

I have about an hour to spruce up the house and fix dinner. They want it on the table by 7 p.m., so I’ve learned to multi-task, cleaning up after them while keeping an eye on the cooking. Of course, I wash my hands between cleaning up piss and chopping up veggies.

 

Dawn’s usually home alone or eating out with friends on Tuesdays and Thursdays while Terrance rehearses with his band Cyclops. Dawn thinks they’re great, and so does Terrance, but they suck. They’ve been together four years and have played only two gigs — and one of those was the drummer’s brother’s middle school graduation party. Band practice is basically an excuse for four losers to get together and do coke while butchering the same five AC/DC songs. But it gets the dickhead out of the house two nights a week, and that’s fine with me.

 

My wife and her lover quickly got used to having a servant at their beck and call, and their cruelty bubbled to the surface. I just went along with it, swallowing the humiliation, focusing on Dawn, dreaming about whisking her away from this world of sin.

 

I soon began to harbor another vision: Wiping that smug look off Terrance’s face by putting a bullet in his head, or rat poison in his mashed potatoes.

 

A few weeks after Terrance moved in, I got slapped for the first time. He had ordered me to fill his car up with gas, but I got distracted with my other chores and forgot. He had to stop at the gas station on his way to band practice. When he got home, he backhanded me across the chops. I sobbed while Dawn looked on, beaming.

 

Now, they regularly slap me for the most minor infractions. Sometimes Terrance will hit me for no reason and say something like, “that’s for being a little bitch.”

 

They keep coming up with new rules. Once after Terrance slapped me, Dawn ordered me to thank him. I did, and from then on that became the standing requirement.

 

One evening, I mistakenly called Dawn “honey,” which pissed off Terrance something fierce. After he beat the shit out of me, he told me I was to refer to my wife as “ma’am,” while he preferred “sir.”

 

Another rule: After the dinner dishes are washed and the kitchen cleaned up, I report to them for their nightly foot massages. They’ll smoke herb, do lines, make out and watch TV while I rub their feet until my hands ache. Usually, they keep me at it for at least an hour each, sometimes longer.

 

They generally ignore me while I pamper them, but sometimes if they’re in a cruel mood — which is a given when they’re on coke — they’ll fuck with me. One of Terrance’s favorite tricks is to clamp the roach clip on my nose, and every now and then one of them will flick it with their toes. They die laughing at the faces I make while trying to concentrate on their foot massages.

 

Then there are my sexual duties. Unfortunately, they don’t always involve my wife.

 

A new, life-altering responsibility was added to my plate one evening about a year ago, when Terrance summoned me to the master bedroom.

 

I stood at the foot of the bed, where my wife and her lover cuddled.

 

“You called, sir?”

 

“Yeah, I got a little problem. Your wife here just started on the rag, and I’m fucking horny. Now, how do we fix that? Can you think of anything?”

 

My blood ran cold. I knew exactly what he was insinuating.

 

Dawn sat up, exposing her tits. “I’d give him a blowjob, but I feel nasty when I’m on my period.” Her eyes ripped through me. “So … you do it.”

 

I felt queasy. “Oh, please, Ma’am, I’m begging you, don’t make me do that.”

 

“She ain’t making you do it, fag — I am.” Terrance threw back the sheets, revealing his huge cock. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you’re sucking my dick tonight. What’s it gonna be?”

 

We did it the easy way, although there was nothing easy about it. His dick tasted like chicken and smelled like fish. I just closed my eyes and tried to get through it. After a few minutes he grabbed my ears and started fucking my throat, causing me to gag, choke and gurgle with each thrust. It was pure hell.

 

Dawn gasped. “God, that’s fucking hot. Skull-fuck that fat little faggot.”

 

Her betrayal burned hotter than hell.

 

Finally, Terrance pulled his dick out of my mouth and pumped it with his fist until arrows of cum lashed my nose, forehead and hair.

 

After Terrance’s spasms subsided he planted his foot on my ribs and shoved me. I tumbled off the bed and slammed onto the floor.

 

He chuckled. “Leave that splooge on your face all night.”

 

“I hear it’s great for the skin,” Dawn giggled.

 

Terrance grunted at me. “Get the fuck out of here.”

 

I ran from their bedroom and blubbered into my pillow all night. I swore I’d buy a pistol the next day and blow his fucking brains out. By morning the feeling had passed, and I was my normal, pitiful self again; a wimp with dried cum on  his face.

 

Although I have a high-stress job, the office is the only place I can go to relax. The stock market rollercoaster is nothing compared to life at home. I need the escape. But as soon as I get to work I find myself aching to be near Dawn. Round and round it goes.

 

I thought I had been dealing with it okay until recently. I don’t know why I’ve been feeling so anxious lately. Maybe I’m finally getting tired of it all. I work long hours at the firm earning money for them, and then when I get home I wait on them hand and foot, bowing, scraping, brown-nosing. In return, they treat me like dog shit and laugh about it. I’m always the butt of the joke. I always get the shitty end of the stick. And like the sap I am, I just fake a smile and thank them for the abuse.

 

I look in the mirror and see a pathetic toad; a short, fat loser. Who would want to spend New Year’s Eve with me?

 

It’s 11:43 — 17 minutes to go.

 

It’s a sad-sack solitary party down here in my sad-sack basement cubby hole. The décor is early sad sack: A mattress on the floor, three plastic milk crates for my clothes, a laptop, and the ironing board in the corner, where I worked my ass off earlier today making sure Dawn would look perfect at the party. She kept changing her mind, so I ended up ironing four different outfits. She finally settled on one of the many “little black dresses” in her closet. This one has taffeta trim, and it’s a pain to iron.

 

The delicate job was made more difficult because Terrance kept interrupting me. I was halfway through Dawn’s dress when he bellowed from upstairs: “Smedley!”

 

How I hate that nickname! Terrance came up with it a few months ago. He says I remind him of Smedley the short, fat elephant from the Cap’n Crunch commercials.

 

I carefully draped Dawn’s dress over the ironing board so as not to wrinkle it and jogged up the stairs. Dawn and Terrance expect me to scamper when they call me — yet another rule they’ve imposed along the way.

 

I rushed into the living room, where Terrance was sprawled out on the couch, clicking through TV channels. As I approached him, he drawled, “Pull the shade down, Smedley, the sun’s in my eyes.”

 

“Yes, sir,” I bowed to him and swiftly carried out his order. Then I stood before the man who had stolen my wife and did a quick scan to see if he needed anything. His iced tea glass was full. Two fat joints and the lighter were arranged in the ashtray. His smokes and cell phone were on the table in front of him. The asshole was all set.

 

I cleared my throat. “Will there be anything else, sir? Ma’am has me ironing her dress, and I’ve also got to shine her shoes before she gets out of the bathroom.”

 

He didn’t look away from the TV. “No, go, and make sure my shoes are shined, too, Smedley.”

 

“Yes, sir. They’re already shined and ready for the party, sir.”

 

“Oh. Good. Then go.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I turned on my heel and headed downstairs.

 

I continued ironing Dawn’s dress, gently touching the tip of the iron to the wispy material. I quailed when I heard Terrance’s voice again: “Smedley, get your fat ass up here.”

 

He sounded pissed. I set down the dress and iron and bolted up the stairs as fast as I could. Within seconds I again stood before the man of the house, twiddling my fingers and shifting my weight from foot to foot.

 

He rattled the ice of his otherwise empty glass. “Is there some new rule I wasn’t made aware of? Do I have to get my own drinks around here now?”

 

“N-no, sir, of course not, sir.”

 

“Well, then, dick-nose, I’ve got a little problem. See, I got cotton-mouth, and I go to take a drink and I get … this.” He jingled the ice again. “Nothing to drink. Empty glass. Whose job is it to fetch refills, Smedley?”

 

I blinked. “I’m so sorry, sir, of course it’s my job, please—“

 

“Shut the fuck up and get your fat ass over here.”

 

I inched toward him. This was no fair. I had just checked his glass when I served him only minutes earlier and it was full. And I even made sure to ask him if he needed anything, and he said he didn’t. I realize it’s my responsibility to check on their drinks, but there’s no way I can always get to it with the impossible workload they heap on me, especially if one of them takes huge gulps and finishes quickly.

 

No matter. There’s no such thing as fair for me. My role around here is to be Smedley, the ATM and whipping boy for whatever annoys them. That’s the deal I agreed to. So I swallowed hard and waited for what I knew was coming.

 

He pointed. “Head down.” I lowered myself to the designated spot so he could slap me without having to move from his lounging position on the couch.

 

BWWWAAAAP! He rang my bell. I doubled over and sobbed.

 

“When you see my glass getting low, refill it, shit-for-brains.”

 

“Yes sir.” I gently took the empty glass from his grasp, trying to sniff back the tears. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

 

I scurried to the kitchen, fixed his drink, rushed back to the living room and served the king his tea. He took a long swig and handed me the half-empty glass. Nothing needed to be said; I retraced my steps for yet another refill, which I served with a fake smile.

 

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

 

“No, fag, go.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

Sigh. I’d just thanked him for calling me a fag.

 

I trekked downstairs. No sooner had I picked up the iron, my master’s voice rang out a third time: “Smedley!” I huffed and stamped my foot. At least this time he didn’t sound mad. I hurried to respond nonetheless.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Chips.”

 

“Oh, yes, sir.”

 

I shuffled off to the kitchen, and within seconds my wife’s lover got a heaping bowl of potato chips served with a submissive smile.

 

I was almost finished with Dawn’s dress when I was again interrupted, this time by my adored wife’s voice: “Smedley. Get up here.” Instead of being perturbed, my heart leapt.

 

As always, I melted the second I saw her. She had just gotten out of the shower and wore a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. She looked like an ancient queen in her satin robe and headdress, relaxed on the couch next to Terrance, who had finally sat his lazy ass up.

 

I stood before them. “Yes, Ma’am, you called?”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Um, ironing your dress, Ma’am.”

 

“What? You haven’t even started on my shoes? What the hell have you been doing down there, playing with that little dick of yours?”

 

I dared not tell her I hadn’t finished because Terrance kept interrupting me. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I’m almost done with the dress, and it shouldn’t take long to do your shoes, Ma’am.”

 

“Well, hurry up, Smedley, you need to do my toenails.”

 

“Oh, yes, Ma’am.” I could hardly contain my glee. Other than foot massages and licking cum from her vagina, giving pedicures is one of the few times Terrance allows me to have physical contact with my wife. I didn’t want to act too happy about it in front of him. My face still stung from his earlier slap; I didn’t want another one.

 

I finished the dress and shoes posthaste, rushed back to the living room — making damn sure Terrance’s iced tea glass was full, along with Dawn’s 7Up — and then sat at my beautiful wife’s feet, cotton balls in hand.

 

“Ma’am, what color would you like?”

 

Dawn was kicked back next to her lover, who had just passed her a joint. Before answering me, she took a long hit, blew the smoke up in the air, had another draw, and with her lungs still full, croaked, “Passion Red.”

 

When you’re hardly allowed to touch your own wife, something as mundane as swabbing off her old toenail polish can be thrilling. Far above me, in the land of the gods, Dawn shared the doobie with her boyfriend. Her robe was hiked up and I could see her magnificent pussy, although I only caught furtive glances, lest Terrance catch me gawking and knock the shit out of me. Dawn made no effort to conceal herself, leaning against her lover with her foot extended while I toiled away unnoticed. I removed the purple polish from her toes and began applying Passion Red without either of them glancing my way.

 

When they finished their joint, they started getting frisky. I tried to concentrate on my wife’s toes while they snogged but she was making it difficult, twisting her foot to and fro in response to Terrance’s caresses. Finally, they broke their embrace.

 

“We can’t fool around,” she said. “He’s got to finish my toes, and then we got to get ready. It’s getting on 6:30 — the party starts at 8.”

 

Terrance glanced at his watch. “Damn, it is getting late.” He turned to me. “Hey, Smedley, when you’re done with Dawn’s toes, make sure my shoes are shined up real nice.”

 

He obviously hadn’t been listening earlier when I told him that I’d done his shoes, so I cheerfully informed him again: “Sir, your shoes are already shined up real nice for you, sir.”

 

“Oh. Well, listen, when we’re gone I want all my tools polished and put away. And give that garage a good cleaning while you’re at it. I was working on the Mustang today.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I gritted my teeth. That was a two-hour job.

 

Dawn added: “I want you to shine all my shoes tonight, too. Eventually, I want my whole closet reorganized. Start with the shoes.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am, thank you, Ma’am.” Two more hours of extra work.

 

She snarled. “And pay attention to what you’re doing; I seen a scuff mark on the heel of my blue pumps the other day. What the fuck.”

 

“I’m so very sorry, Ma’am, I’ll make sure all your shoes are gleaming, I promise.”

 

Dawn ignored me and continued watching TV, her pussy still on full display. She looked so blasé, so brash, so mystically, femininely arrogant. It was a challenge trying to concentrate on keeping the polish on her toenails, but I finished like a champ. I don’t get many excuses to feel good about myself these days so I pathetically take satisfaction in completing menial tasks that probably never cross either of their minds.

 

When I announced, “your toes are done, Ma’am,” she glanced at her feet and nodded.

 

“Go lay out my dress on the bed, and lay out Terrance’s things.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am, thank you.”

 

Before leaving the room, I checked their glasses and saw that both were about half-full. I hurried to the kitchen and prepared refills. They didn’t even glance up from the television as I served their drinks. They’re so spoiled it isn’t funny. They just expect their glasses to be full when they go to take a drink, and if they aren’t they get pissed at me, and I get yelled at or slapped.

 

After my masters were taken care of, I hurried to their bedroom and laid out their clothes. They looked magnificent as they paraded out the door without so much as a grunt my way. I sighed and started my chores, already aching for her to come back home.

 

Well, diary, while I was whining about my problems I completely missed the New Year. What a fuck-up I am.

 

It’s 12:21. Welcome to 2018. It sucks, just like 2017.

 

I’m trying to push through. Will this diary help? I think so. While I was writing, I wasn’t curled up on my mattress crying my eyes out and contemplating suicide. So that’s an improvement over last year.

 

I have no idea when they’ll be home from the party. I’m going to sign off now and head upstairs. Maybe I can still smell her perfume …

 

January 2, 2018, 10 minutes after midnight

 

 

Dear diary,

 

They took it too far this time. It’s him. He’s the one pushing her into this cruelty. The mother-fucker needs to die.

 

If I don’t kill his ass, I’m a pathetic piece of shit. That’s all there is to it. I’ve got to get out of this fucked up situation. I need to make it happen. I’m sick of this bullshit. How much more can I take?

 

I’m fried, wore out, exhausted, abused. This is the first chance I’ve had since my last diary entry to sit down and collect my thoughts. I really don’t have much time now, because I’ve got to get some sleep. But I’m going to keep my New Year’s resolution and continue writing in this journal, if it’s the last thing I do. I feel it’s my only chance to avoid the loony bin.

 

Or maybe I’m already crazy. I must be, because I keep putting up with this shit.

 

My wife and her boyfriend came home from the Rapture New Year’s Eve party and destroyed me, scorching my flesh and crushing my spirit.

 

As I sit here, my entire body is on fire. The worst pain is in my nipples and genitals, which are dotted with round cigarette burns. I can’t get the taste of soap and tobacco out of my mouth. To top it off, I haven’t slept for two days. I had caught a brief nap while waiting for my wife and her lover to get back from their party, but since then I’ve been too busy to sleep.

 

They returned from the party at 2:30 a.m. Like a good little wimp, I was waiting for them in the foyer, hands folded in front of me. My shoulders drooped when I saw two sets of headlights pull into our driveway. We had company. I had an idea who it might be. The thought made me shiver.

 

They barreled into the house and my worst fears were confirmed — our guests were Jenny and her boyfriend Blake, the bassist for Cyclops. They’re regular visitors, and take great delight in my debasement.

 

I faked a smile as the four partiers handed me their coats.

 

“Hello, Ma’am; hello, Sir,” I said. “And hello, Miss Jenny and Mr. Blake.”

 

Terrance smirked at me for a second — and then hauled off and slapped the shit out of me, sending me reeling as the coats tumbled to the floor.

 

“That’s for being a faggot.” He sneered as everyone chuckled. “Now pick up them coats and hang ‘em up.”

 

I sniffed back tears. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I dropped the coats.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you’re done, go get drinks, Smedley.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I hated myself for bowing and scraping like that in front of company, but I knew anything less would earn me more pain.

 

As I trotted off to the kitchen, I heard Terrance say, “you got to slap a bitch sometimes to keep ‘em in line.” Everyone laughed.

 

When I returned with their drinks I saw Terrance cutting up lines of coke. I gulped. My wife and her boyfriend are mean enough to me on their best days, but when they get on that shit Satan takes over.

 

After they’d all been served refreshments, I stood humbly before them as they passed the mirror around and snorted their lines. Terrance leaned back on the couch with his left arm draped around my wife while he lit a joint with his right hand.

 

He blew smoke at me. “Happy New Year, Smedley.”

 

“Um, thank you, sir, Happy New Year to you, too.”

 

Dawn nestled closer to her lover. “And how was your glamorous New Year’s Eve at home, Smedley? Did you get all my shoes done?”

 

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, they’re all polished up and ready to go.”

 

Jenny smirked. “What a brown-noser.”

 

They all cackled. I batted my eyelids and forced my little slave smile.

 

Blake piped in: “Hey, Smedley, I got a present for you. I got three pair of shoes in my trunk that need a good shining.”

 

“Yes, sir.” My lips tightened. “Thank you, sir. Do you want me to do them tonight?”

 

Now, I don’t know what possessed me to ask such an inane question, but when I saw my wife’s reaction I immediately knew I shouldn’t have asked it.

 

“Does he want you to do his shoes tonight?” Her eyes flashed. “When do you think he meant, you fucking idiot? Next Tuesday? Come here. Get your fat ass over here.”

 

I shuffled toward Dawn, who continued ripping into me, showing off for her friends. “Ask stupid fucking questions. Lean your head down here.” I positioned myself for the pain and humiliation to come.

 

PTTAAP! THWAP! FWAP! She twisted my ear and whacked me across each cheek three times. Her diamond ring scraped my nose on the final backhand. Tears welled up in my eyes.

 

“Quit whining, you fat piece of shit.” Dawn took the joint from Terrance and held it an inch from her lips. “For asking such a stupid fucking question, go in the bathroom, get a bar of soap …” She toked. “And put it in your mouth.”

 

Jenny chuckled. “Just like Ralphie.”

 

Just like Ralphie. For the next hour or so, I served them with the bar of soap hanging out of my mouth, although our brand was Dial, not Lifebuoy. The bar eventually melted a bit, and Terrance told me to chew it up and swallow it. I’ve felt sick to my stomach since.

 

At one point in the evening, after they all had a good buzz going, my wife summoned me.

 

“Come here, Smedley.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am?”

 

“Pull down your pants. Underwear, too.” I did as ordered, my face flush with shame. Dawn leaned forward, wielding her lit cigarette like a dart. I held my breath, knowing what was coming. I told myself the cocaine was making her do it, as if that would somehow make it hurt less.

 

Jenny snickered and pointed at my shriveled-up dick. “Look how tiny it is,” she said. “Kind of like a cock, only smaller.”

 

“It’s about to get even smaller,” my wife said as she crushed out her cigarette on my pee-hole, causing me to wail and fall to my knees. Dawn slapped me across the face and popped her cigarette butt into my mouth. “Swallow.” I obeyed.

 

Now the die was cast, and whenever one of them finished a cigarette, they’d put it out on me and make me swallow it. My nipples, dick and balls were their favorite targets, although one time Terrance told me to “bend over and spread ‘em,” before dotting out his Marlboro on my asshole. In my effort not to scream, I bit my lip so hard I drew blood. He ordered: “Keep the cigarette butt tucked in there. The butt in your butt cheeks,” which got a huge laugh out of everyone. It burned like crazy.

 

When they tired of using me as a human ashtray, I retrieved Blake’s shoes from his trunk and started shining them, although as usual I kept getting interrupted to fetch drinks and snacks. In my haste to finish the shoeshines, I accidentally scraped the wood handle of my buffing brush across the toe of Blake’s left dress shoe, leaving a two-inch scar in the leather. I tried frantically to scrub away the mark but that only made it worse. I knew I was done for, and with tears in my eyes I finished cleaning and shining Blake’s other shoes.

 

When I finished, I entered the living room holding the shoes, and stood before Blake with my head bowed. He nodded at the loafers. “Show me those,” he said, and I held them up for his inspection.

 

“Not bad, Smedley. Now the Nikes.”

 

I presented the sneakers, and he again seemed happy. “Now the Stacys.”

 

A lump formed in my throat. “Um, sir … I’m so sorry. I, um, I messed up, sir.”

 

Blake grabbed the marred shoe from my hand. “Are you fucking kidding me? These are $400 dress shoes, you idiot. What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

I didn’t get the chance to answer because Terrance snatched the good shoe from my grip and slapped me hard across the face with its sole. I fell to the carpet and curled up in the fetal position.

 

“How dare you embarrass me in front of my friend,” Terrance bellowed.

 

“Sir, I’m so sorry, sir.”

 

“Sorry ain’t good enough, Smedley. You need to make it up to him. How are you gonna do that?”

 

I gulped. “I don’t know, sir. I’ll pay for the shoes.”

 

“Oh, you’ll do more than that,” Terrance said. He turned to his bass player.

 

“You got anything you need him to do?”

 

Blake rubbed his chin. “I don’t know …”

 

“How about a free day of rent-a-fag?” Dawn asked. “He’ll clean your house, do whatever you want to do for a whole day.”

 

She scowled at me. “Ask them nicely if they’ll let you be their maid for a day, Smedley. It’s the one thing you do that’s worth a fuck.”

 

Before I could ask, Jenny jumped in: “You know, the garage could use a good cleaning. And I’d like all my shoes shined real good.”

 

Blake smirked at me. “It’s a date, then. We’ll get $400 out of your fat ass, believe me, Smedley.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” My tight lips formed a submissive smile.

 

“The queer’s all yours, guys,” Dawn said. “Rent-a-fag. He can head over to your place later today if you want. We’re gonna probably crash all day, so we won’t need him here.”

 

Blake yawned. “Shit, we’re gonna crash, too, but that won’t bother Smedley while he works, will it, Smeds?”

 

“No, sir, thank you for letting me clean your house, sir.”

 

He ignored me, and they rekindled their conversation while I stood there like a gimp.

 

Eventually, Jenny stretched and said: “Well, we probably need to get going, but I’m pretty drunk. Can you drive, honey?”

 

Blake rubbed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t think I better chance it. Maybe Smedley can make a pot of coffee; let me sober up a bit.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dawn said. “Smedley can be your designated driver, and then he can start cleaning your house while you guys crash.”

 

“Sounds good to me.” Blake rolled his eyes my way. “But how’s he gonna get back home?”

 

Dawn smirked. “Who gives a fuck?” Everyone cracked up.

 

“He can walk,” Terrance said. “A walk will do him good. Maybe knock a few pounds off that fat ass.” They all busted up laughing again, and I did what I always do when I’m the butt of their jokes: Flash that stupid, self-conscious, defeated smile.

 

Everything went according to plan. I drove Jenny and Blake home and they immediately hit the sack. While they snuggled in bed, I busted my ass cleaning their garage, polishing Jenny’s shoe collection, doing their laundry and then scrubbing every room of their house except the bedroom and master bathroom, since I didn’t want to disturb the slumbering couple. They woke up around 5 p.m., and after I fixed them cheeseburgers for dinner, I cleaned their bedroom and bathroom.

 

When I was done, I reported to Jenny and Blake, who were watching TV in the living room.

 

“Um, sir? Ma’am? Everything’s done. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

Blake shook his head. “Nope, house looks good. Now get the fuck out of here.”

 

Jenny glanced out the window and giggled. “Dang, it looks pretty nasty out there. I sure wouldn’t want to have to walk all the way home in that blizzard. Sucks to be you, don’t it, Smedley?”

 

I lied: “Um, that’s okay, ma’am, I just want to make you and Mr. Blake happy, and I hope you are happy. I’m glad to serve you whenever Mr. Terrance and Ms. Dawn want me to. And, again, I’m so sorry about your shoe.”

 

“Such an ass-kisser,” Jenny said. “Go away, wimp. You’re getting on my nerves.”

 

“Yes, ma’am; sorry, ma’am.””

 

I left their house and with the weary sigh of an abused cuckold slave, I began the 13-mile trek back to our house in the cold and driving snow. Walking caused the blisters from the cigarette burns in my crotch to burst, and I cried all the way home.

 

Now I’m ready to drop, so I’ll stop right here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, dear diary. Thank you for keeping me sane for one more night.

 

 

 

 

January 3 2018, 10:42 p.m.

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

My right cheek is still stinging from Terrance’s slap just a few minutes ago, but my ego hurts even worse. I can still hear the sound of Dawn’s laughter after her lover popped me.

 

It was my fault. It’s always my fault. As I was entering their bedroom with drink refills, I tripped on Dawn’s sandal and spilled iced tea on Terrance’s leg. He jumped up from the bed and slapped the shit out of me. I fought back tears and rushed off to get a rag.

 

Hardly a day goes by when I don’t get slapped. Terrance bitch-slaps me for any little infraction, or sometimes for no reason at all. Dawn isn’t much better, although she isn’t as quick to strike me unless she’s on coke. When she does get mad, her thing is to twist my ear with one hand while slapping me multiple times with the other. Her blows aren’t as powerful as Terrance’s, but she makes up for it in ferocity. I can’t fathom how the sweet, feminine creature who mews in Terrance’s ear one minute can turn around and can lash such vitriol at me.

 

Oh, crap, I’ve got to go … just got a text from Ma’am, calling me to their bedroom. I thought they were asleep. OMG, I hope their drinks aren’t empty. Back later.

 

 

 

 

January 4, 3:23 a.m.

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

I’m back. The past few hours have been a dizzying whirlwind of sexual surrender and humiliation. I have to get up and work in the morning, but I’m way too tweaked to sleep.

 

After I got Ma’am’ text, I rushed up two flights of stairs to the master bedroom, where my wife and Terrance relaxed on the bed. I noticed their drinks were half-full. I cleared my throat.

 

“Um, if it’s okay, can I refill your drinks?”

 

“In a minute,” Dawn said. “First, go get the motion lotion.”

 

“Right away, Ma’am.” I scurried into their closet, found their “box of toys,” and knelt in my familiar position at her bedside. “Which flavor, Ma’am?”

 

“Chocolate.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.” I handed her the bottle, averting my eyes as I’ve been trained. I never know what they’ll require of me when they make love, so I just keep my head down and don’t move from my knees until I’m told to. I felt honored to be in the room with them. It’s a rare treat.

 

I knelt there, hands folded in my lap, for about 20 minutes while my wife made out with her virile lover. When you’re a cuckold, you get used to being ignored. I couldn’t help sneaking quick peeks at them as they gently caressed each other with the lotion and licked it off.

 

Terrance called for a recess and took a swig of his iced tea until the glass was empty. He rattled the ice at me. I scrambled to my feet, gathered both their drinks, and shuffled off to the kitchen.

 

After I served drinks to the king and queen, I again knelt at their bedside, head bowed. I was only there a few seconds when Terrance snapped his fingers. “Get up here, Smedley, and give me my propers.”

 

My soul sobbed. His propers — my most hated task.

 

I slithered under the covers at the foot of the bed and worked my up until my face was inches from his ass. With a sigh, I gently worked my tongue in between his disgusting hairy cheeks and gave my master his “propers” while he made out with my wife. With my head under the covers and my nose and tongue smothered in ass, I found it difficult to breathe. My head was spinning but I toiled on, desperate to provide the most exquisite pleasure to the man who was so cruel to me.

 

After a good half hour, Terrance finally threw the covers back and rolled over. I hadn’t been told to stop licking so I twisted with him, doing my best to keep my tongue inserted in his anus. He moved toward my wife, and I craned my neck to stay with him. Dawn lay back and spread her legs. With a grunt, Terrance entered her and began slowly humping. It was easy to keep my tongue in his butt at this leisurely pace. But, as always, he began to speed up, slamming against my face so hard I feared he might knock my jaw out of socket. I know it’s pathetic, but I felt a sense of pride that I was able to keep my tongue in master’s ass while he fucked my darling Dawn into oblivion. Every now and then her heel would slam into the back of my head as she kicked her legs in time with her lover’s thrusts. But I stayed the course.

 

Finally, I felt his asshole clench up around my tongue as he jammed himself balls-deep into my wife’s pussy, screaming “Oh, shit, oh, baby, oh shit.” His sphincter muscles twitched as he reached a powerful orgasm with Dawn shouting “oh, yeah, cum in me, God, I love you.” Those three words shot through me like a Taser.

 

Terrance pushed my head away, rolled off my wife and collapsed. Dawn sighed and waved her arm lazily in my direction. “Lick.”

 

Terrance chuckled. “I left you a big load to eat, Smedley.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

It was indeed a mess, although as I licked up the globs of Master’s cum, the thought went through my head: “At least it’s better than licking his ass.” I slowly bobbed my head up and down, reverently tonguing my wife’s sacred vagina. I didn’t want to lick too fast, because that often earns me a slap. She just likes to relax after she gets fucked, and have me soothe her battered pussy like a kitten lapping up milk in slow-motion.

 

I was deep in the throes of passion with my face in my wife’s well-fucked pussy when she suddenly leaned to the side and ripped a fart.

 

“Thnkyurmstris,” I mumbled my thanks into her pussy. She giggled.

 

Dawn finally told me to stop licking her, and I looked up at Terrance. “May I clean you, sir?”

 

“Not tonight, faggot, just go get me a wet washcloth.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I hopped off the bed and, my face still wet from the juices of their lovemaking, rushed to the master bath. When I returned to their bedside, I offered the damp cloth.

 

“Um, sir, would you like me to clean you, or do you want to…” Before I could finish the sentence, Terrance snatched the washcloth from my grasp. He scrubbed his dick a few times, took a swipe across his asshole, balled up the washcloth, and threw it at my face. It smacked me upside the head and Dawn tittered.

 

After I put the washcloth in the bin I scurried back to the bedroom and knelt in my spot next to their bed.

 

Terrance yawned. “Baby, you done with Smedley?”

 

She nodded and returned the yawn.

 

Terrance smirked. “We’re done with you. Get the fuck out of here.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

 

I bowed to my superiors then scurried away. 

 

Whew! What a night!

 

By the way, I must say this diary seems to be working. It’s cathartic to write all this stuff down. I don’t know why but it’s definitely helping. As bad as things have been lately, I don’t feel quite so anxious. I understand why my life has to be this way. I wish it was different, but Dawn will never be my girl. But at least she’s my mistress.

 

Until tomorrow, Dear Diary …

 

 

 

January 5 2018, 1:29 a.m.

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Tonight was just another episode of my cuckold reality show … another night of having my dignity ripped to shreds … another night spent aching for my wife as she nestled in another man’s arms … another night of nagging, bittersweet pain.

 

I can’t really point to anything out of the ordinary that happened tonight, and maybe that’s why I’m in such a shitty mood. The humiliations I suffered, the casual disdain with which my wife and her lover treated me, were perfectly normal in this dysfunctional threesome. It was simply another night of getting dumped on by two people who don’t give a damn about my feelings. I’m just the servant, there to make life easier for them. I’m the loyal poodle, the cootie boy who got teased at school, who should consider himself lucky to be allowed to hang out with His and Her Royal Highness.

 

It had been a stressful day at work, with clients going ape-shit because their tech stocks were taking a beating. I calmed their fears by painting the long-term picture, explaining how market trends work, and how it behooved them to hold fast. As pathetic as I am at home, I’m an astute stockbroker, and I earn plenty of money for my wife and her lover.

 

When my grueling day ended, things got even worse: I ended up sitting in a freeway traffic jam for nearly two hours, the result of a multi-car accident a quarter-mile up the road, according to the radio news. After about a half-hour sitting there I began to squirm, agonizing over whether to use my cell phone to call them and let them know I’d be late. I didn’t want to get yelled at for bothering them with something trivial. But I also knew they’d probably want to know if I was going to be too late getting home. I decided to wait a few minutes to see if traffic cleared. It didn’t.

 

At the 45 minute mark, I phoned my mistress’ number. She picked up after the third ring. As always, a shiver went through me when I heard her sweet voice, even if her attitude wasn’t so sweet.

 

“What?” She sounded annoyed, as she usually does when I phone her.

 

“Um, I’m sorry to be calling, Ma’am, but I’m stuck in a real bad traffic jam. The radio says it’s a four-car accident. I’m so sorry, but I might be awhile.”

 

Through the receiver, I heard her exhale. “Well, goddamn it, Smedley, I’m getting hungry.” She yelled to Terrance: “Hey, babe, the faggot’s stuck in a traffic jam and he won’t be home for a while; what do you wDawn do about dinner?”

 

I faintly heard him say “pizza.”

 

My wife again spoke to me: “Order us a large pizza, Smedley. Half and half.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am, right away.” She hung up without acknowledging me.

 

I dialed Napoli Pizza and used my credit card to order the usual for my masters: Half mushrooms and green peppers for her; half extra cheese, sausage and onions for him.

 

It was after 8 pm when I finally trudged through the front door and hung up my coat. My head was pounding from my stressful workday and sitting in traffic for two hours. I ventured into the living room, where Dawn was kicked back on the couch engrossed in her smartphone, legs crossed at the ankles, head in Terrance’s lap. She wore sweat pants and one of Terrance’s flannel shirts. Terrance was watching TV, absent-mindedly stroking my beloved wife’s hair with his fingertips. Does the bastard realize how lucky he is? What I wouldn’t give to be in his place. The son of a bitch stole her from me, rubs my face in it every day, and doesn’t give it a second thought.

 

I blinked and tried to swallow my morbid jealousy. I had enough chores to occupy my mind. The living room was a complete disgrace, as usual. Cigarette butts and ashes were ground into the carpet, which I surmised was the result of someone knocking over the ashtray and then repeatedly walking across the mess. The pizza box lay open on the floor, and a slice was face-down on the carpet. Drop a slice of pizza? Why bother bending down two feet to pick it up? That’s what Smedley the wimp is for.

 

I swallowed my resentment and reported directly to my masters as I’m required to do if they’re in the house when I get home from work. Standing before them, I noticed their drinks were half-empty.

 

“Hello, Ma’am; sir …. I’m so sorry I’m late. That was a bad accident. The radio said four cars got smashed up. Anyway, I’m really sorry; I’ll get your refills in a jiffy.”

 

“Yeah, and then you need to run back out and get cigarettes.” Terrance yawned. “I’m getting low, and there’s only one pack left in the carton. How the hell did you let it get so low?”

 

I bowed my head. I hadn’t had time to go shopping because they’d been running me ragged for the past week. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that.

 

With a shiver, I cleared my throat. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

 

“Yeah, you are sorry. What if I’d have run out of smokes? Get the fuck over here.”

 

I inched forward, expecting the usual bitch-slap. Instead he stood up and surprised me by kicking me hard in the balls. I bent forward, dropped to ground and curled up in the fetal position. My wife’s giggling made the pain ten times worse.

 

“Poor Smedley.” She cocked her head. “You just can’t do anything without being pathetic, can you?”

 

“Unggh, no, Ma’am,” I grunted through my haze of pain.

 

Terrance nudged my face with his socked foot. “Get the fuck up and go to the store, faggot. Refills first.” He plopped back onto the couch, and my wife again rested her head on his lap.

 

I somehow pulled myself upright, gathered their half-full glasses, and limped off to the kitchen.

 

My balls were still aching as I hobbled back toward my masters with their drinks. As I approached the living room, I sucked up the pain and broke into my serving trot. I set their drinks before them and stood at attention, hands clasped in front of me.

 

“Will there be anything else before I go?”

 

Neither of them answered; Dawn was concentrating on her cell phone while Terrance surfed through TV channels.

 

I waited about 10 seconds before again asking in my most respectful tone: “Ma’am? Sir? Will there be anything else before I go to the store?”

 

Dawn looked up, her lip curled. “No, Smedley, if we’d have wanted something else we’d have told you.”

 

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

 

My shoulders slumped as I hobbled back outside into the cold. A Smedley’s work is never done. I drove to the local market and used my credit card to buy a month’s worth of smokes: Four cartons of Newport for her, four Marlboro for him. By the time I got back home I was completely exhausted, and I still had a blinding headache. I hung up my coat, lumbered to the basement, and splashed handfuls of cold water on my face in the utility sink, desperate to muster up some pep. Tired as I was, and as shitty as I felt, I knew there’d be hell to pay if I didn’t serve them with the proper enthusiasm.

 

As I climbed the stairs, my stomach grumbled. It was nearly 10 p.m. and the last thing I’d eaten was my 7 a.m. breakfast — a bowl of cold, bland oatmeal. Every morning the menu is the same: oatmeal mixed with tap water. I’m allowed to buy only one canister of store-brand oats every two weeks, so I have to make it last. I’m not allowed lunch. Dawn likes me to work through my lunch period so I can earn more money for her — and, as she constantly points out, I need to lose weight.

 

I reported to my masters in the living room and noted their drinks were still full. He was watching sports highlights while she still navigated her smartphone.

 

I folded my hands in front of me. “Um, is it okay if I eat dinner now?”

 

Dawn shook her head. “Clean up this mess first.”

 

I forced a tight smile. “Of course, Ma’am, thank you, Ma’am.”

 

As usual, my reply was ignored.

 

I toiled in the living room, trying not to disturb them, darting around as unobtrusively as possible collecting empty plates, the pizza box and the slice on the floor. In the kitchen, I pre-soaked a rag with furniture cleaner so I wouldn’t have to spray it near my masters; then I polished the coffee table and end tables, making sure to stay low so they could see the TV. I gently set down the clean ashtrays, crawled away from the couch and into the kitchen, where I retrieved the whisk broom from the utility closet. I’m not allowed to use the vacuum cleaner when they’re watching television (obviously), so I use the whisk broom to remove ashes, crumbs and other debris from the carpet. I’ve learned to whisk gently — if I make too much noise scraping the carpet with the broom, Terrance might bitch-slap me if he’s in a mood.

 

When the living room was clean, I fetched refills for my wife and lover and again stood at attention before them. My stomach was doing backflips. I waited a good 30 seconds without Dawn or Terrance acknowledging me. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, I can never get used to that vulnerable feeling of standing patiently before my reclining masters, fiddling my fingers, too scared to interrupt them while they pay no attention to me whatsoever. I know if I say the wrong thing, or use the wrong tone of voice, or have the wrong look on my face, they’ll  get pissed — and I’ll get slapped.

 

I finally mustered the courage: “Um, uh, Ma’am? Sir? The living room is clean; is it okay if I eat now?”

 

Dawn rolled her eyes and set her phone on the table. “Yes, fat-ass, go feed your face already. Gain another 10 pounds, why don’t you?”

 

My lips formed that sad clown’s smile. “Thank you, Ma’am.” Yeah, thank you for insulting me. I glanced at Terrance; he was riveted to an MMA fight and didn’t even notice her barb, thank goodness.

 

My dinner was the usual: off-brand tuna, two pieces of bread and an apple. I ate the fish out of the can; they don’t like me using the expensive dishes I paid for. With such a Spartan diet, I should be losing weight but I’m not. I’m one of those guys who will always be fat, no matter what. At one point, Terrance imposed a strict daily regimen on me, he was convinced I was sneaking food at the office, since I was eating only about 900 calories a day at home and wasn’t losing any weight. He tore my ass up with his leather belt a good five or six times before he finally realized I wasn’t sneaking snacks; I just have a sluggish metabolism.

 

After I ate my lonely, pathetic dinner in the kitchen, I reported back into the living room. The couch was empty, meaning they’d retired to their bedroom. Their glasses were still on the coffee table so I refilled them and floated upstairs. The bedroom door was open, and I could see them lying in bed, but I stood in the hall and knocked anyway. I don’t dare enter their bedroom without knocking. Terrance lay on his side, eyes closed. Evidently, even though it was Friday, they were turning in early.  Maybe they have something planned for the weekend, and they’re getting their rest. I wouldn’t know; I’m never consulted on such matters.

 

I stood in the doorway for several seconds before Dawn grunted her permission to enter. I shuffled to their respective nightstands, gently setting down their freshened drinks.

 

Dawn took a long swig of her 7Up and handed me the glass. “Another one,” she said.

 

“Of course, Ma’am.” I rushed back downstairs, my little dick stirring at how blasé my wife was when she issued her order. It’s totally unfair how she and Terrance just expect me to jump when they say jump, and how they take all my hard work for granted — but it’s the price I pay for keeping Dawn in my life.

 

In no time flat, my mistress had a fresh, full drink on her nightstand. After serving her, I stepped to the foot of the bed and folded my hands in front of me.

 

“Will there be anything else, Ma’am?” I asked in a soft tone.

 

My beloved wife yawned. “No, Smedley, turn off the light.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am, good night, Ma’am.” She didn’t reply.

 

After they went to sleep, I spent about two hours taking care of my nightly quiet chores: doing dishes, cleaning the kitchen and scrubbing the floors in the kitchen, guest bathroom and foyer. Then I dusted and polished the living room table for the second time that night, since there already were ashes everywhere and circular stains from their drinks. Coasters? Yeah, right. You think my spoiled masters would even think to use coasters?

 

Well, diary, I’m dead on my feet, so I’ll stop here. I’ve got to say, keeping this journal does help, because when I first started writing tonight I was in a dark mood. Now, although I’m emotionally exhausted, I don’t feel so terrible anymore. Things are hard for me, but it is what it is. At least I get to still be a part of Dawn’s life. If I want that to continue I must really put my heart into serving her, which means serving Terrance, too. I must constantly strive to be a better slave for them, because I know if I don’t serve the way they insist, they’ll throw me out on my ass in a hot minute. Thankfully, as long as I remain humble, I think they like having me around to do all the shit work.

 

Well, I keep rambling, but I’ve got to get some sleep. Good night!

 

 

 

 

 

January 6, 2018, 4:39 p.m.

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

It’s a chilly, lonely Saturday afternoon. My masters have been gone all day, and I’m taking a quick break from my chores. Saturdays are when I get the big stuff out of the way: Washing windows and baseboards, cleaning the garage, yard work. I’ve gotten all of that done already, having started at 5:30 a.m. My wife and her boyfriend get to sleep in every day, but it’s a luxury I’m never allowed, even on weekends. They left the house this morning shortly after I served their usual breakfast in bed. They didn’t tell me where they were going. Why would they? I’m just the maid, the short, fat loser who’s lucky to be allowed to serve them.

 

What a sap I am. I endure all this for her and she doesn’t love me, not even a little bit. She never did. She made that abundantly clear on that fateful day when she informed me she wanted to leave me. The scene plays in my head constantly, haunting me with an ache that won’t go away. I literally fell to my knees and begged her to stay, and she seemed disgusted with my subservience. That set the tone.

 

I knew all along she’d only married me for my money. Given how fat and ugly I am and how beautiful she is, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out.

 

Well, diary, I guess I’d better get back to work, although I don’t really have a lot left to do. Terrance’s shoes need to be shined, but he only has 8 pair, so it’s not as time-consuming as doing Dawn’s collection of three dozen. After that, I need to whip up dinner so it can be ready when they get home. I don’t know if they’re going to a restaurant, so I’ve got to have something ready just in case when they walk through the door; woe betide me if they’re hungry and there’s nothing to eat. On nights when I don’t know when they’ll be home, I try to cook something that will keep without drying out. I think I’ll make beef stew. It’s a cold day, and I think that would hit the spot for them. Maybe I’ll also make those lemon bars they like for dessert. It’s quick and easy, and I think they’ll be pleased.

 

Well, diary, I’ll sign off for now and get busy.

 

 

 

 

January 6, 2018, 8:18 p.m.

 

 

Still no word from them. The stew has been simmering for hours. I’ve already eaten my can of tuna and apple for dinner, and all my chores are finished. Now, I’m just sitting here going crazy. It’s bad enough pining for your wife when she’s just two floors upstairs, but when you don’t have a clue where she is your imagination kicks into overdrive, and you’re flooded with feelings of jealousy, inadequacy, concern and panic.

 

There’s probably nothing to worry about. Right? She’s probably out somewhere having a great time with Terrance. But where? What are they doing? During the summer when they’re gone all day like this, it’s a safe bet they took the Sea Ray out of the boat slip. But it’s freezing out. What could they be doing? They left around 10 a.m. That’s 10 hours. Maybe they’re hurt. Maybe they had an accident; the roads are slippery. Should I call their cell phones, or call the police? Check the hospitals? No, that’s ridiculous.

 

Speaking of slippery concrete, that reminds me; I’ve got to go outside and throw some more salt down. If Dawn or Terrance were to ever slip on the sidewalk, I wouldn’t be able to sit down for a month.

 

 

 

 

January 7, 2018, 12:39 a.m.

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Well, I guess they’re not coming home. About a half hour ago I put the stew in a Tupperware container; I can serve it for lunch tomorrow if they’re back by then. I wouldn’t think they’d be gone more than overnight, since they didn’t have me pack extra clothes and they didn’t take any bags with them when they left the house.

 

I have a bunch more jumbled thoughts I’d planned to write down, but now that I’m sitting at the computer, all I want to do is sleep. I think I’m going to hit the mattress early tonight for a change.

 

Good night!

 

 

 

 

January 7, 2018, noon

 

 

Well, shit … it’s already 12 o’clock and still no sign of them. The house has never been cleaner, because I’ve scrubbed every surface 15 times trying to stay busy. I had to take a break because my back is killing me, and I need to rest up because they could be home at any minute, and I’ll need to be in shape to serve them.

 

That’s the focus of my pathetic life at this point: What can I do to serve my wife and her lover?

 

I hate to admit it, but I think I’m starting to get used to it. I really have no choice; I’ll never leave Dawn, no matter how terribly she treats me. But here’s the part I’m really having a difficult time admitting to myself: I’m starting to think of Terrance as my master, and I find myself aching to please him, and thrilling to any tiny grunt of acknowledgement.

 

Sure, I still resent the sonofabitch. Why wouldn’t I? Dawn is the love of my life, and he stole her from me and laughed about it. But I’m starting to respect him for it, too. I mean, there must be something to him if an angel like Dawn is in love with him. Or maybe I’ve been mooning away here alone in the house for too long; I don’t know. Sigh.

 

Where the hell are they? It’s killing me … I keep grabbing my phone and pulling up her number, trying to muster the nerve to text her. What would I say? “Sorry, Ma’am, but I haven’t heard from you and I’m just checking to see if you’re all right?” No. She might get annoyed at that.

 

But what if something did happen and I didn’t bother to call? That would be even worse than annoying Dawn, I think.

 

I’ll give it a few more hours. If they’re not home by 4 p.m., I’ll text her.

 

 

 

 

January 8, 2018 9:30 p.m.

 

 

Well, Dawn and Terrance finally waltzed through the front door just before 3. I still don’t know exactly where they went; they clearly didn’t feel they owed me an explanation, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to ask.

 

When I heard the car pull up in the driveway, I rushed to the foyer — then I second-guessed myself and retreated to the kitchen because I didn’t want to seem overanxious about their return and slobber all over them the minute they walked in the door. I then third-guessed myself, thinking it would be disrespectful if I wasn’t on hand to greet my mistress and master, so I hurried back. Just as I entered the foyer, the front door swung open.

 

My heart melted when I saw my wife, who jerked her thumb at me as she sauntered into the living room.

 

“The car’s a mess, Smedley.” She dropped her purse on the table and plopped onto the couch.

 

“Hold up,” Terrance said as I turned to go. “First, you need to get me an iced tea. Then I want my feet rubbed; you can clean the car later.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

My wife called after me: “Grab me a soda, too, Smedley.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said over my shoulder as I broke into my required serving trot, as if getting their drinks to them quickly was the most important thing in the world to me, which, I suppose, it was.

 

When I returned to the living room with their drinks, my wife and her boyfriend were cuddling on the couch. As always, the alpha male commandeered the remote. I fetched the lotion, sank to my knees in front of him, and waited.

 

They ignored me while Terrance flipped through the channels, finally settling on an MMA fight, he and Dawn being big fans of the sport.

 

As the fight started, Terrance leaned back in the reclining sofa and popped up the footstool. He nodded at me. “Go ahead, Smedley. Work the heel good, especially on that right foot.”

 

“Of course, sir, thank you, sir,” I said.

 

Dawn snorted. “Fucking brown-noser.”

 

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

 

I bowed my head and got busy on Terrance’s feet.