8 comments/ 13015 views/ 2 favorites Why I Hate The Merchants By: A_Girl_Named_Bill Everything went to shit when the Merchants moved into our cul-de-sac. It used to be: Me and Ella; my best friend, Pete; and his wife, Jeanie. We were all the best of friends. We liked the same things. We got along just fine when it was us. We had our weekly barbecues. Pete and I made ribs, hot dogs, and hamburgers on the BBQ and smoked our cigars. After dinner, we sat in the lawn chairs on my driveway and drank beer, while Jeanie and Ella cleaned up and gabbed about whatever the fuck it is that they gab about for hours on end. Our lives were simple and easy. I was a happy man. And then Los and Mara Merchant had to move into the house next door. They ruined everything. First of all, Los doesn't even have a fucking job. Oh, he says he does. He's a "writer." But what he really means is that he's that guy that sits home while his wife goes to work and brings home the bacon. He gets to lounge at home and create his "arte." Sure, he's done some some-what impressive home improvement projects over the last three months. The guy is handy; I give him that. But the thing that kills me-K I L L S ME!-is Mara doesn't even seem to mind. She seems happy to make all the money while he stays home, does all the cooking and cleaning, and his "writing." And to make matters worse, Mara's fucking gorgeous. I mean G O R G E O U S. She doesn't have the body type that usually does it for me. She's all curvy and big assed and jiggly when she walks, but my God - how she fucking owns that walk. When she looks at me, her eyes sparkle and her lips are all wet and glossy. When she smiles, it's like this slow, creeping upturn of her lips like she's thinking of all the dirty, filthy things she'd like to do with them. She'll flirt and say, "Hey Markie. How's it hangin'?" (My name's Mark, but she adds an "ie" to it. She does that with every name it seems: Pete is Petie. Ella is Ellie.) I swear to God, for the longest time, I thought she was coming onto me. Until I realized that her eyes always sparkle like that no matter who she's looking at. Her lips are always wet and glossy whether she's talking to the mailman, the exterminator, or the Hari-Fucking-Krishna's that show up at the door. She looks at Pete that way, for fuck's sake. And we all know no one in their right mind wants to fuck that fat, ugly Fuck. Unless they're a whore. Mara's most definitely a whore. One Saturday night after dinner when Pete and I were sitting in my driveway, we heard a noise coming from the Merchant's garage next door. We hear them playing their nightly ping pong game, and then we hear all this giggling and this loud "Oh my God, Daddy!" and what could only be the sound of a ping pong paddle smacking against an ass. When we look over, Los is fucking Mara from behind on the table in plain view. He's got his fist all wrapped up in her long, dark, curly hair, and he's smacking her sweet jiggly ass with the paddle. And she's screaming, crying, and squirming all around like she's fucking loving it. I don't think I really hated him until that moment. He doesn't work. And his gorgeous wife loves having sex with him. I'm not saying that Ella doesn't enjoy sex with me. She obviously loves it because she comes every time and has since the first time we did it in the backseat of my car when we were 17. She doesn't say she does, but a man can just tell. We don't have sex often, but that's not my fault. I have an actual fucking J-O-B and responsibilities, so I'm tired when I come home. Of course, maybe if Ella looked and acted the way Mara does, I would want to do it more. But Ella's not sexy. Now don't get me wrong, I love my wife. But she's no super model. First off, she could stand to lose a few pounds. And she's plain. She just doesn't have that certain something that some women do when they walk in a room; that thing that makes a man take notice. And she's always in her head, thinking and dreaming. The only thing that really seems to get her excited is when she paints. It's a hobby of hers. I used to think it was cute when we first got married, but when we bought the house, she suddenly had this grand idea of turning the extra room into an art studio. Fuck that racket. The room was the perfect place for my computer, big screen TV, and Xbox. I've got the most shit, so the room, naturally, belongs to me. When Ella paints, she does it in the garage. I was nice enough to clear out a corner and put down a throw mat, so she doesn't get paint all over my floor. She can sit in there for hours painting nothing but fruits and vegetables in bowls. It's always the same old shit. Who the fuck does that? The one time she painted an actual person, she asked me what I thought. The woman was sprawled out naked on one of those movie star couches with her fat rolls hanging out. I asked, "Why's she fat? Why would you paint a picture of a fat, naked chick? You should have at least made her hot." She'd just looked at me with that sad look she gets sometimes and never asked my opinion again, which was fine by me. She spends way too much time in the garage and way too much money on those supplies anyway. That shit's gonna stop when we discuss next year's budget. I need a new set of golf clubs, so silly stuff like her painting has gotta go. One time, Los came over while she was painting in the garage and asked to see her "work," as if she's a real artist or something. He'd stayed there for an hour gushing over her paintings. Telling her how talented she was and asking her questions about her "technique" and how she comes up with her subject matter. I'd said, "She opens the refrigerator door and opens the crisper drawer." Then I'd stood there laughing-because let's face it-that's a funny fucking joke, and it's true. They'd both looked at me like I was a dickhead. That's when I decided Los is probably one of those closet bisexuals cause what real man would be interested in my wife's pictures of fruit. So, when the Merchants invited us to a cocktail party, Pete and I were all like, "What the fuck?" I mean, who has cocktail parties? Wasn't that something people did in the 1950's? Apparently, you're expected to eat dinner beforehand because they're too cheap to have a barbecue like everyone else and provide you real food to eat. Mara's all like, "Oh, we're going to serve old-fashioned cocktails and sushi. Please dress up in something nice." And she told the girls if they had a fancy dress that they didn't have an occasion to wear that they should wear it to the party. Because it would be "fun" and "a reason to get dressed up and look all hot and sexy for our guys." How stupid is that? I told Mara right off, I wasn't wearing a tie or anything. She'd just rolled her eyes and said, "Wear whatever you want, Markie." You're damn skippy I'll wear whatever I want. The night of the party, Ella comes out of the bedroom in a dress I've never seen before. Of course, the first thing I ask is when the hell she bought it because she BETTER NOT have spent extra money on something just for this stupid party. She lowered her eyes and said she's had it for a long time but never had a place to wear it. But I have to admit, she looks pretty good in it. It's black and shorter than anything she usually wears. It's tight at the waist, making it look tinier than it actually is. And flares out from her hips and ass, making her look all soft, curvy, and feminine. It's cut low between the valley of her tits and makes them look fuller and perkier. She's also got her hair up in a tight, little knot with these stupid chopsticks sticking out. She's wearing red lipstick and has some smoky, dark makeup smudged around her eyes, making them look sexy and mysterious. I don't think I've ever seen her look like this. Though I don't lead on how pretty she looks because I don't want her getting a big head and thinking that she's all that. So, I tell her instead, "For God's sake, Ella. Put a sweater on. Your boobs are falling out." That makes her eyes get all watery and big. She's so sensitive sometimes. When we walk into the Merchant's house, I'm forced to see all the DYS projects Los has done in the short time they've lived there. He's refinished the hard wood floors, so they gleam like new. He's even updated the kitchen with new cabinets and granite counter tops, which is something that Ella's been asking me to do since we moved in. I'd told her, Hell no. It's too expensive. When she asks him how much all the updates cost them, he gives her this detailed rundown of the cost of materials and how they saved money by him doing the work himself. The price is about half of what I told Ella it would cost. But Los is such a gloating asshole; it's obvious he's rubbing this in my face to make me look like an inept, lazy fuck wad. So, I make sure to mention that home improvement projects are easy when you don't have a JOB and all the time in the world to be a fuck-off. The cocktails they're serving are in these tall, fancy glasses. There's three different martinis to choose from. Luckily, I brought a 12 pack, so I don't have to drink any of their foo-foo shit. Mara's looking hot as usual. She's wearing a dress that makes her look like a 1920's flapper. It's dark burgundy and has fringe that's shimmies when she moves. She's even holding one of those long cigarette holders. The neckline of the dress displays her perfect creamy titties, and I can't seem to drag my eyes away from them every time she comes around with the sushi tray. I turn down the raw fish, but take up the offer to oogle her. Even Jeanie, who's usually not much to look at, looks kinda hot in that bright-blue, sequined mini skirt and matching top she's wearing. I never realized how long her legs were. In those hooker heels, they look about a mile long. As the night goes on, everyone's getting a good buzz on. Pete, the pussy he is, has been drinking Appletinis and talking about music with Los like they're the best of friends. I didn't even know he was into music so much. You think you'd know everything about your best friend. When Los grabs his guitar, Pete grabs that stupid harmonica he always keeps in his pocket and joins him. Ella, Jeanie, and Mara gather around them like teenaged groupies, leaning in and singing along. I elbow Pete in the ribs and say, "Elton John, Pete? Really? Are you gay or something?" Pete, who usually always laughs at my jokes, ignores me and keeps playing like he's having the time of his life. It kinda hurts my feelings and pisses me off at the same time. Then Mara pulls this big, fat joint out and starts passing it around. Pete surprises me even more by taking a long toke. I watch them with my mouth open because I didn't even know he and Jeanie were into that hippie shit. Even more shocking is when ELLA takes a suck from it and holds it in like a pro. I give her a dirty look, which she ignores and goes back to moving her head from side to side and shaking her shoulders like a hussy while "Mister Sensitive" sings about shit that's blowing in the wind. After that, everything kind of gets a little crazy. The music gets turned up louder. The girls are giggling, swinging their hips, raising their arms above their heads, and grinding into each other all sexy like. Pete's jamming sushi into his mouth like they're potato chips. Los, with a serene smile on his face, is sitting on the floor Indian-style while the girls dance around him like they're a part his personal harem. At some point, Jeanie stands up, swaying like she's about to topple into the coffee table, and asks where the bathroom is. Mara points her in the direction of the bedroom. When Jeanie goes stumbling off, we hear her yell, "Whoah! What's this thing on the bed?" Mara gets this lascivious grin on her face, starts giggling like a possessed person, and runs into the bedroom. Out of curiosity, one by one, we all follow to see what's going on. On the king-sized bed, there's this machine that looks like some sort of exercise equipment. Mara says to Jeanie, "It's a Sybian. You ever tried one?" Jeanie and Ella are just kind of standing there, looking at it, unsure. Jeanie says, "No. What does it do?" Los is leaning in the doorway with that stupid, serene smirk on his face and says, "You sit on it. It vibrates and makes you have an orgasm. " Then he says, "Mara . . . why don't you show Ella and Jeanie what it's like?" Mara says enthusiastically, "Oh GOD yes! It's fucking AMAZING! Best orgasm you will EVER have in your life!" Los opens up a drawer and comes back with a big dildo and attaches it to the top of the machine. Pete says under his breath, "Holy shit. This is NOT happening. " Mara crawls onto the bed, straddles the machine, and hikes her dress up. She's not wearing panties, and we watch her bare pussy lower down onto the dildo until it disappears. At the base, there's a little patch of rough nubs, which she mashes herself down on and wiggles. When she nods to Los, he's flips the switch on the remote he's holding. The machine motor starts up with a low hum. On the bed, Mara starts moving her hips back and forth like she's riding a mechanical bull. When Los turns the dial, the hum gets louder. Mara closes her eyes, starts rocking faster and runs her hands all over her tits like we're not even in the room. "Oh yes. God yes," she moans. "Make it go faster, Daddy." I am as hard as rock as I watch her. I look sideways at Pete. He's gripping the neck of his martini glass and flexing his fingers around it like he wishes it was his cock. Ella and Jeanie are glued to their spots, watching Mara writhe on the machine like they're hypnotized and can't look away. Los puts a knee up on the bed, leans in, and starts squeezing Mara's tits as she rides. That seems to spur her on. She starts fucking the machine faster. Grinding down on those nubs hard and rubbing her wet pussy all over them like the shameless whore she is. After about 10 seconds, she tips her head back and screams, "Oh my fucking God! Yes, Daddy! Yes!" and falls forward shuddering. I close my mouth because I realize I'm breathing loudly out of it instead of my nose. Pete has his mouth open, too, and looks like he's about to come in his pants. It's possible he has. As if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, Mara hoists herself off the dildo and slides off the machine. Smiling at Jeanie and Ella, she asks brightly, "Which one of you is up next?" Jeanie shakes her head back and forth and babbles, "Oh-gosh-no-no-no. I mean, no thank-you. I -I- I -just-couldn't-do . . . " and she points a trembling finger at the machine ". . . THAT." I grab Ella by the arm and start to pull her towards the door. "Come on. We're going home." I feel Ella's body stiffen, and she pulls her arm out of my grasp. Her eyes haven't left the machine on the bed since the moment Mara got on it. I hear her say: "I want to try it." My eyes bulge. "The fuck you are, Ella!" As she moves toward the bed, I take a step towards her. Los stands between us, spreads his hands in an appeasing fashion, and says, "Hey hey hey there! Mark, if Ella wants to try it, it's her choice. Not yours. She's her own person." Ella moves towards the bed, while Los smiles his annoying, know-it-all, Guru smile. He removes the dildo, squirts it with some spray, and wipes it off with a cloth. Then he affixes it back on the machine. He grabs a bottle of clear lube from a drawer and squirts it on the dildo saying with a wink, "Since you're a first timer." He holds her hand, guiding her up on the bed, and instructs her to straddle the machine. She lifts up her skirt and slowly peels her panties off, exposing her neatly trimmed brown bush. I hiss between gritted teeth, "Don't you do this, Ella . . . Don't you DARE fucking do this!" She ignores me and slowly begins to sink down onto the dildo, sucking in her breath as if it hurts. When she's rested on it fully, she winces, but looks calmly at Los, "What do I do? I'm not sure what to do." He smiles at her in a comforting way and says, "Just relax. I'll start the machine slow. Just rock into it and do what comes naturally. If you want me to increase the intensity, let me know." Ella bites her lip and nods. When the motor starts up, her eyes pop. "Oh!" she says and sits there for a moment trying to adjust. Slowly and hesitantly, she starts to move her hips into the vibration. She looks self-conscious like she's not sure whether she likes it or not. Los says, "Perfect. You're doing perfect, Ella. Just close your eyes and try to relax. Rub your clitoris on those little nubs at the base. They'll feel really good and make you self-lubricate more, so the size of the attachment will feel less overwhelming." Ella pushes her pussy down into the base and starts to grind it against the rough patch of nubs. "Oh," she gasps softly as if in shock. Her eyes close, and I see her legs spread open wider in response. The lips of her pussy are exposed, and you can see she's really wet. Los says, "That's it. Stimulate your clit. Rub it all over those little nubs." Then he adds, "It feels good, doesn't it? It's OK to feel good, you know. You're allowed to feel good, sweetheart." I bristle. Because it feels like he's slamming me. Like he knows something about my wife that I don't. I begin to wonder how much they talk while I'm at work. Ella's eyes are closed, and her breaths are coming out in quiet, little gasps. She appears to be completely oblivious to everyone in the room. Her head falls back, making the chopsticks in her hair start to loosen and fall out. Part of her hair falls down over her shoulder. She looks all loose and lost. Like she's completely giving herself over to the thing between her legs. Los turns the dial up. The machine starts vibrating harder, faster and louder. Her breath sucks in, and she moans, "Oh. God." She places both her hands in back of her, leans back into the saddle and starts moving her hips up and down as she chews her lower lip. I see a pink flush start at the tops of her tits and spread up her neck. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are closed, and her tongue is running over her upper lip, making it wet. I'm seething. I'm also hard as a fucking rock. Los bends down and whispers into her ear, "You look so sexy, Ella. How does it feel?" With her eyes closed, almost incoherently, she moans, "So good . . . so good. Never . . . like . . . this. Please. Don't stop. Don't make it stop." I hear Pete breath out in a low voice, "Jesus fuck, Mark. Your wife is smoking hot." I shoot him a dirty look. This is not my wife. I don't know who the hell this woman is. But she is most definitely NOT MY wife. She starts gasping and moving her hips faster and more fluidly. She's falling apart like I've never seen her fall apart. She's moaning, kneading her tits, and moving her hips like a porn star. And then her mouth opens like she's going to scream, but nothing comes out. I see clear liquid running down the lips of her pussy and down the shaft of the dildo as she slides up and down on it like she can't stop. Tears begin to stream down her face, her body shudders, and . . . she starts sobbing. The room goes completely quiet except for the sound of her crying. And it becomes undeniably clear what it is that we have all just witnessed: We've just watched my wife have her first, ever, orgasm. I turn my back and walk out the door. When she finally comes home, I'm waiting for her in the kitchen in the dark. She stands in front of me and says nothing. When I look up, I expect her to look apologetic, afraid, or upset. All of the above emotions would be fine as well. Why I Hate The Merchants None of those appear on her face. She just looks . . . tired. That makes the rage already bubbling inside of my stomach boil over. Evenly and quietly, I tell her: "You humiliated yourself over at the Merchants tonight, Ella. It was disgusting. You looked like a cow." She stares into my face. Her eyes are unwavering as she looks into mine. Oddly, they are . . . cold. Then she turns her back and walks very slowly and deliberately to the bedroom. I hear the click of the lock after she closes the door. The next day when I get home from work, she's gone. Her clothes. Her painting supplies. Half of the money in our bank account. Gone. All gone. There is no note. There is nothing left of her. Except for that painting of the fat, naked woman on the couch. That she left. I run over to Pete and Jeanie's and demand to know if they've talked to her. If they know where she went. When she's coming back. They look down at the ground and can't look me in the eye. Pete just says, "She's gone, Mark. She's not coming back." There are no barbecues anymore. Pete doesn't come over to sit in the driveway and drink beer with me anymore. The last time he did, he looked afraid, and said, "Man. She's gone. You have to pull it together." But he's wrong. I don't have to do anything. Anything. Except sit here in my driveway. Drink beer that tastes like hot, black bile as it slides down my throat. Listen to the sound of His guitar and Pete's harmonica as it wafts through the windows from next door. Like they're fucking mocking me. So, I rest the bottom of my chin on the barrel of this gun. I adjust my finger on the trigger. Because I hate the Merchants. I hate them. Everything was fine before they came. They ruined everything.