Patrick's Mother-In-Law

Start at the most beautiful part.

Susan's white dress. Susan's white veil. Seen up-close, because she's standing right next to Patrick, who is wearing the nicest suit he's ever worn, a suit so nice he's renting it.

The veil is lifted. Susan's beautiful face. More made up than Patrick has ever seen her in her life. But, she is still eighteen, though nineteen soon. She looks older to him now, twenty-four maybe, but no less perfect. His teenage bride. His virgin bride. His lawfully wedded wife.

Her eyes are for him and her smile is for him. Here in church they are alone together. He sees the excitement in her eyes and hears her words from several months ago:

"Of course it's going to be great, I finally get to have sex."

Patrick looks at his brand-new wife and though he's only twenty-four himself, he's so sure and so proud to have this beauty, this fresh and brand-new beauty, for his own, forever.

As for a Man's mission to acquire a beautiful and envy-inducing wife: he's already succeeded and he's only twenty-four. And, he's going to get to fuck a virgin tonight. His virgin.

"You may kiss the bride" intones the Priest and Patrick does. They kiss just like they practiced.

Flashback to her mother's living room, a month before the wedding. Susan's plump and austere mother, every inch of her large hips and bottom, every centimeter of her massive, womanly bust, covered demurely and discreetly in wools and skirts and thick hose, high collars; the longest sleeves in even the hottest weathers. Susan's mother making it quite clear:

"You must kiss as husband and wife in the Church before the Lord and all your family and it must be a proper kiss."

Susan and Patrick sitting humbly next to each other on Susan's mother's couch. "M-mother," Susan protested weakly, without getting up.

But Susan's mother would have none of it.

"And any kiss that you can kiss in church you can assuredly kiss in front of your mother in her living room. We cannot have you two giving in to passion too early. But it is very important that you look natural and in love, as I know you are, darling," and she gave a reassuring look to her future son-in-law, Patrick, the kind of look that reminded him that he was being entrusted with the most darling and precious thing in the entire world that has ever existed.

"But, mother..."

"I won't hear any more of it. Turn to each other," her mother commanded.

"Perhaps, Mrs. O'Shanley," Patrick spoke up, trying to rise to his fiancée Susan's defense, "we could practice it ourselves, first, here, in private, to get it right before you came in to... approve."

"Nonsense. I won't have you getting it wrong before getting it right," she said in a way indicating she was implying things. "Now, kiss each other like I know you've kissed goodnight before, when people were looking, but put a little more into it."

Susan turned to face Patrick, setting her face forward and her head back, the eighteen-year-old's lips presented as and looking like the most inviting place in the whole universe. Full of freshness and innocence and love. Patrick sometimes did worry about a bride so young and so inexperienced at being a woman, but when Susan's face looked like that, when she gave him nothing but trust and beauty and love, Patrick felt like he should thank God and the Virgin every day for this virgin whom they have given to him.

Her eyes were closed. All of her senses focusing on the feel, the feel of him to be, the feel of him, only inches apart already, but about to be so intimately close, so very close...

"Don't be shy, Patrick, I know you've kissed my daughter before, and I know she's liked it," Susan's mother quipped impatiently.

"Muuuuuuum," Susan moaned, her eyes closed, her dewey look now being replaced by her mortified look.

Patrick knew he could not let his wife-to-be dangle out in that headspace. He leaned in to her quickly.

His kiss, firm on her lips but on no more than on her pursed lips, made a smack that was audible, even across the room to her mother, and from her initial shock at its suddenness, Susan melted, her spine relaxing and releasing, all the parts of her that so warmly responded to him, responded to him as they were getting trained to do. They pressed their lips hard and intensely against each other, touching only by their mouths, beginning to lose their breath and themselves in their kiss.

"That's long enough," Susan's mother said. Patrick felt Susan pull away from their kiss instantly.

"Not bad," Susan's mother said. "Try again, but make it more polite."

Patrick and Susan tried again.

"Okay, stop, that's enough. Not bad, but I think I have the timing down," Susan's mother declared. "When you kiss, I want you each to count to three, one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, and then pull away. Everyone will applaud and no one will be offended. Try that now."

This time, Patrick could feel Susan more obsessed with the counting to three correctly than with the kissing.

"That's good. Try again."

And this time was more mechanical. 

"Not bad, one more time for good measure."

And this time was even more mechanical, Patrick not even bothering to count, could feel Susan doing so, and knew Susan would, as she did this time again, pull away quick when the kiss was done.

"That's fine, but you're pulling away too fast after the kiss," her mother chided her. "He's your husband, not a rotten fish. Patrick, take her hands so she can't get away, and then after the kiss, you both turn to face the parishioners, and smile so they can all applaud you. Now, do it again.

This time was not so much mechanical as perfunctory and rehearsed, as were the next half dozen kisses they were required to practice and perform that evening. Once Susan's mother thought they kissed passionately but appropriately chastely, they all three sought forgiveness and clarity from the Lord, dropping to their knees on the soft floor of Susan's mother's living room, and all praying the Our Father together.

Susan, though originally off-put and feeling weird by being made to kiss her fiancé in front of her mother, felt reassured by her mother's reassurance, and by the holy prayers.

Patrick, who was to leave to go home then, excused himself to the bathroom where he quickly treated his aching erection, before leaving for home. Kneeling with it in prayer had been agony, and while the kisses had been more robotic than erotic by the end, the presence of the sweet teenager next to him, the readiness with which she gave her lips to him, her breath to him, had the effect on him that nature intended.

Then why was it that he was picturing Susan's mother in front of him, picturing her taking off that severe sweater she was wearing, picturing her removing the heavy bra she wore to hold up her massive bowling-ball breasts, picturing her kneeling in front of him to apologize for making her daughter be such a cock-tease... Patrick got so carried away thinking about Mrs. O'Shanley, he almost forgot to turn around and spunk out into the toilet bowl.

Whew. Saved from having a mess to clean up. Feeling drained and blissful and the tiniest built guilty about having to see Susan and kiss her goodnight as soon as he came out of the bathroom.

But he did, and he went home and life resumed and sped-up and then they were in Church and it was Their Wedding Day.

And just before Patrick kissed Susan for real, just the very second as he turned to her, he saw her mother's face there in the Church. Susan's mother was still young herself, still only forty, still able to wear her plumpness such as that the flash of her broad thigh covered in dark hose which Patrick caught sight of just the half-second before meeting his new-wife's lips, that as he felt Susan counting her three beats, he thought about her mother's hose-adorned thighs, dark and saucy and naughty and knowing in ways that innocent angel Susan could never be.

And then, after thinking about his mother in law while kissing his new wife in church, after thinking about Susan's mother during the first kiss he shared with Susan as husband and wife, after queering their bond for all time, but quite naturally so and without hesitation, after kissing a nearly nineteen-year-old while thinking about her milf mommy, Patrick turned with his new wife to face their guests and receive their acclaim and support.

From the church to the reception, there is no moment when Patrick and Susan are left alone. Patrick sees Susan's mother making sure of that. If she's not within arm or dress-train length of the Bride at all times, one of her most trusted confidants from the village and the Parish are there, watching over the newlyweds so they don't disgrace themselves.

Susan's mother goes to Mass every morning since her husband died so young, dying at an age only a little older than Patrick is then at his wedding. Susan's mother is very well-known and well-liked in the Parish, and most of the guests are there for her, not for her beautiful daughter. Susan has relatively few friends, even when she was at the Catholic secondary school, female-only, which she attended on a scholarship from the Parish. Susan is not a wonderful, gifted student but she is sweet and her mother is beloved in the Parish.

People in the Parish are old fashioned, and they easily approve of an accomplished tradesman like Patrick, with training and skill and a thriving business, and they approve of him marrying a comely young lass of no fortune, and settling a beauty like her down and away, before any sorry drama can come of a beautiful young lady with few prospects remaining unwed.

To all at the Reception after his wedding, Patrick is greeted as someone heaven sent.

And in their bedroom late that night, Susan greets Patrick like her best friend, her confidant, and her truest heart's love.

The unsophisticated might think it a rarity to find a virgin left even at nearly nineteen in the modern northern hemisphere during the twenty-first century. But it is the natural consequence of the tragic loss of her father during her childhood, and how Susan's mother let that bind herself to Susan even closer than before.

Her mother's attention, combined with a religious orthodoxy of purity, obedience and guilt made it quite easy for Susan to keep her virginity until her wedding night.

Dancing with his Bride at their wedding, her white dress was a great point of pride for Patrick. At first, her insistence on her preserving her virginity despite already being over eighteen was a shock and an unwelcome surprise when she disclosed the fact on their first date. But he kept seeing her, kept kissing her after dates to the depth and level she would allow. When she removed one of his wandering hands, he did not transgress again.

Everything above the waist eventually became part of their courtship, but she was as shy as she was insistent that her chaste boundaries be respected.

She was so beautiful to Patrick, he readily acquiesced, and he never told her that he would still see her even if she let him do no more than massage her feet.

Dancing with Susan at their wedding, Patrick felt like this was all for him. Her dress was white because Susan was pure. Susan had waited and resisted, even though she had made it clear to him that she was a sensuous woman at heart, that she was eager to begin her sexual life, eager to begin it with him and under his tutelage. He knew this because she told him. While Susan's mother was protective of her, she had not sheltered Susan from the truths about the world, about men and about women, and while demure and chaste, Susan was not uninterested in what is natural between men and women, and quite interested in being a woman to a man, as God did make her to be.

Patrick went to the hotel suite with Susan that wedding night feeling like he had won a great prize. He had won some great race, some great contest, and would now be getting his prize, would be receiving his prize every day for the rest of his life. This woman was alive and electric in his arms, she was all his. She was his virgin bride. He had chosen correctly, he was getting a Bride as brides were went to be.

And this Bride was excited to be his bride.

Though quite exhausted, the first time Patrick touched Susan's nearly-bare hips that night, nearly bare but for the band of her white thong, one of the last parts of her wedding costume still on her virgin body by that point, but the feeling of her hips in her husband's hands, for the first time of the infinite times they would be holding her, gave her life anew, and the happy couple was going to have no difficulty finding the energy to consummate their marriage on the wedding night itself.

Another traditional feature to his marriage that Patrick loved as it happened.

Patrick was a good man, and he took all cares and efforts to arouse and ready his teen bride for true entry into womanhood. Susan really was a virgin, as she seemed to be and as both she and her mother had promised. Patrick was caring and sweet, and it did take a long time, and he did need to take it very slow getting inserted, and it did hurt, and she did bleed, but they did tell each other they loved one another.

When Susan was open and feeling good and ready to be loved good and proper by her husband, he reached for something and she asked what and he said a condom so he could orgasm without pulling out and Susan surprised him most of all when she said "no need," that her mother had put her on birth control pills two months ago so Patrick could have all the fun he wanted without putting Susan in the family way sooner than they wanted.

And so after being told that, Patrick loved his wife like a wife was meant to be loved by a husband, loved her as a woman, and as he fucked his teenage bride's impossibly pure cunt, he thought about her mother, her big-hipped and big-titted mother, and how that horny old bitch of Susan's mother had been thinking about him, thinking about him doing this to her daughter, this that he was doing right now, she had imagined it and envisioned it, contemplated it and planned for it. Planned it to happen just like this, bareback leading to an internal ejaculation, coming-in-her, as the French say, like true lovers sealing their true love match.

Violating the doctrines and teachings of the Church, so her daughter and her son in law can celebrate their holy matrimony in sin.

Patrick fucked his sinful wife, fucked her sinning heart and loved her, loved her for doing whatever her mother told her and swallowing whatever magic pills her mother gave her to swallow. Never connecting her real life with the dogmas of her Church or her worship. But loving both, and doing both, with the purest of hearts.

His wife's cunt was given to him as a plaything on his wedding, tight and bloody and needing to be opened by persuasion and then some consented-for, begged-for force to tear her hymen, but without any fear of responsibility or woe. She was not physically there but Patrick felt the presence of Susan's mother with every thrust into Susan's sweet honeypot.

As if he could feel her watching him. As if he could hear her, approving him, approving the way he deflowered her daughter.

Susan's beautiful body was worth the wait, and her tight, loving cunt was worth the wait, but as he fucked his sweet bride, he closed his eyes and thought of her mother, her plump mother who had put her daughter first and had denied herself men, denied herself love and pleasure and a man's touch since her widowing, her mother who was herself a sort of virgin again, but one unlikely to bleed and cry on his cock in pain.

One who needed a deep-dicking even more than the one her daughter was receiving.

Susan called for Patrick in her ecstasy and agony, "oh Patrick it hurts, oh Patrick please be quick it hurts, oh baby it hurts," and Patrick held his virgin bride's hips and fucked her hard and fast to come in her as quick as he could, and he thought about her mother underneath him, her face and hair as it was done at the wedding, her lipstick and her perfume so sexy and enchanting, picturing her chubby body underneath him now, picturing her big, floppy, saggy tits bouncing now below him while he rode her, pictured Susan's mother's moaning, her smiling face, her loving the fucking he was giving to the old bitch, and when in his mind he called her a bitch she said yes I am a bitch, call me a bitch, and while fucking his mother-in-law in his mind and calling her a bitch in his mind, he fucked his new wife Susan, and came in her, and the first time he came inside his wife, Patrick was closing his eyes and imagining her mother.

But he collapsed on top of Susan, and kissed her, and told her he loved her, and she had tears in her eyes as she told him that she loved him.

And so they began a truly happy marriage for the next seven years.

They departed family the next day, and began their honeymoon good and proper. Where they went is unimportant, for by day and night, Susan found her virginity a thing of the distant past in only a short while.

Her new husband could simply not get enough of his young wife's body, and there was not a minute where they were alone together where she did not find herself most impaled on her young husband's stiff and solid member.

Patrick only fantasized about Susan's mother for the first few days of their honeymoon. Patrick was relieved to find, by the end of their honeymoon week, that his mind and his body could both be present while atop and inside his panting, moaning, screaming bride.

This was all his. She was all his. Sweet, pure, and, he was seeing, completely submissive and docile in every way like the goodest of good girls.

He told her to be ready by a certain time because they were checking out of the hotel, she was ready. Told to wear a certain outfit to bed because it pleased him to see it on her, then that's what she came out in, no arguments or debate. Out to eat and she ordered something he said he thought she would regret, she changed her order to a more neutral choice, and Susan did it with a smile and love in her heart for a man and a husband who cared enough to lead her and pay the attention to her that Patrick was paying her.

So of course when Patrick wanted a blowie in the car on the ride home, of course Susan took her seatbelt off and gave him road-head. With a giggle and a smile, because this was the kind of perfect young bride whom Patrick had married.

And of course, Patrick thought about Susan's mother doing it while feeling her daughter do it. He fantasized about him driving Mrs. O'Shanley home and she thanking him by sucking his cock the whole way.

Susan choked when his cum hit the back of her throat. She gagged and coughed.

Would her mother?

Or would her mother swallow down with perfection?

The honeymoon ends, they return to their new life, together.

Of course, after the first Church service once they're living together as man and wife, they have Susan's mother back to their home. Mrs. O'Shanley is made up perfectly and chastely for Church. The fabrics that cover her body, covering everything yet not hiding how shapely her womanly figure was, how young she really was in her forties. The scents that adorn her; intoxicating.

She shows less skin in Church than even Susan does, yet as soon as she is in his home with them, Patrick's cock is rock hard.

He wants to bend this older woman over the table and instead of having a family meal on in, consecrate it first with a fuck.

All this formality, all this reserve, all these fine conservative clothes, make Patrick rage with lust and fire. His manly cock hardbound in cotton boxer briefs and woolen suit pants, suppressing his natural body's desires through the Service of the Mass, always turn him into a Beast of Need. His electrons charged with Holy natural passion.

The passion for woman.

For women.

And if these clothes and customs affect Patrick thus, he reasons, must not his widowed mother-in-law be thusly afflicted? Untouched and unfucked for so many years since Susan's father passed away.

Didn't she need to be bent over their table? Didn't she need to have her conservative long skirt pulled up, exposing her garter belt and her panty-less ass, and her stockings. Her conservative underthings framing her softest skin and her sweetest grottoes. A plump round, ripe target for whomever would claim her at last.

The delicious, wordless expression on Mrs. O'Shanley's face as his cock goes up inside her.

She's all gooey and soft and ready for him, she can't complain, her body gives her away. She's ready for this fucking, she's probably wanted this fucking from even before the wedding.

And Patrick knows that when he looks up to see Susan in the doorway to the kitchen, he knows she will stand there wordlessly and watch. He knows she will not make a peep or say a discouraging word. She might turn around and go the other way back into the kitchen, so she can pretend like she never, ever saw her husband Patrick fucking her mother bareback on the dining room table.

But he knows if he's balls deep in her mother, and her mother is clearly fine with it, then Susan is going to be fine with it, no matter how much it hurts.

And Patrick knows that even if Susan is depressed, he will feel fine emptying his balls into her mother, and then later than night, fuck his wife Susan in their bed, reclaiming her, too, as it were, reclaiming her from her doubt and worry that she won't get love and touch and sex anymore.

Because she knows she would trade that for a Daddy, and she knows Patrick was chosen for her, approved for her, because he's a provider and man-of-the-house daddy type.

But Patrick would fuck her and love her, even if he was tired after having dog-fucked her mother and even if his balls were mostly drained from having had a great time inside the mature milf like he wanted earlier that night. Patrick would fuck and love Susan and her mother both, same day, day after day if need be; he knew he would.

But at that first brunch after Church, Patrick did not bend his mother-in-law over the table. He did not bareback her and Susan on the same day.

Fantasy remained fantasy. Decorum remained decorous.

Yet, even though he loved having Mrs. O'Shanley over, he could not wait for her to leave so he could fuck her daughter in their bed.

However, this quickly became a weekly tradition, a weekly ecstasy and agony, and fantasy, as those Church nights, Mrs. O'Shanley's perfume lingered in the air of their marital home.

If Susan connected her mother's visits after they went to Church together, to Susan getting fucked hard and thoroughly each night after her mother went home, Susan never, ever mentioned it to her husband Patrick.

And though his sex life was regular with Susan, and on nights after her mother visited it was always quick and hot and good, Patrick could not stop thinking about Mrs. O'Shanley's erotic possibilities.

A resourceful young man of the information age, Patrick heads to the world wide web.

There must be people writing about experiences with their mothers-in-law, he reasons. It must be possible.

Someone must have found the way.

But the more he looks, he finds that success is something only on the pages of fiction. He does not care, Patrick is one of the last few who are literate in the twenty-first century. He can understand the written word, and the realism in so many of these stories speaks to him. Reminds him of his own experience.

Gives him hope.

He finds writers he enjoys, writers whom he keeps coming back to and expanding his tastes with their excellent understanding of life and the human condition. He knows they are telling the truth because they talk about things he himself has seen, experienced, felt.

He reads more, but he keeps it secret, keeps it a casual thing in his occasional alone time.

He does not share with Susan the stories he likes.


Patrick peruses literate erotica on the internet. He finally gathers up the courage to write to one of his favorite writers. Patrick decides he will write to the writer, and then does nothing.

He decides, then a day goes by. Then two. He has written nothing. He has decided he should write, he knows he wants to write, he loves the subject about which he will write. And yet, he writes nothing.

A week goes by. Then another. He has decided, he decided weeks ago and does not regret his decision. But he writes nothing. He keeps reading, he re-reads his favorite stories and imagines his wife and imagines his mother-in-law. He needs to share these electric thoughts. And yet, another week goes by.

He composes the letter he wants to send to this writer whose stories he loves reading. He composes it a hundred times in his head, casually, in his spare moments. He never sends it.

Thinking is one thing.

Writing feels like crossing a line Patrick was not sure he wanted to cross yet.

Writing would be admitting, writing would be confessing, writing would be incriminating.

Patrick fantasized about his mother-in-law since the day he saw her. He fantasized about this woman more than any other woman in his life, ever. More than any celebrity, any starlet, any classmate, any Aunt. Much more than his wife. Far much more than his wife.

Years have gone by, and the years tell the tale. Patrick must admit what anyone would conclude was the truth.

For years of marriage, Patrick masturbated thinking about his wife's mother. Patrick seldom jerked off thinking about his wife. But his wife's mother? Oh, yes, he thought about her and came at least once or twice a week, every week, for seven years of matrimony to her daughter.

And of course when he fucked her daughter, he thought about her. Not every time, not every fuck. But, when she was around or had been recently around... when her perfume still hung in the air from her recent visit... then, Patrick could not help himself. He had to fantasize about her. He had to fuck his wife and close his eyes and come in her thinking about her mother.

He had to.

Smelling her scent, hearing the recent sound of her voice in the air, there was no choice. Patrick could not have her, so he needed to have the next best thing, quite literally. And quite immediately. And he did.

Their's was a religious household, of strong, traditional values.

Patrick's wife said her proper prayers, day and night, and acted like she believed every word. Their house had something religious hanging on the wall in every single room. Through seven years of marriage, Patrick remained the only lover she had ever had between her legs, or anywhere else, and Patrick kept her busy and sore and tired, from his regular attentions to her.

Patrick's wife might be able to handle herself in the world outside their home, she would often come home with a story about standing up to some woman who was being rude and bossy in line at the fitting room at a store, and she had no problem being cagey and shrewd about getting the best values for the family when she was out grocery and necessity shopping.

But in the home, she gladly did as Patrick requested, and she always did, still, as her mother told her.

Those weekly after-Church brunches became longer and longer the more comfortable Mrs. O'Shanley became around her daughter and her new son-in-law. If Mrs. O'Shanley thought a piece of furniture would look better in another room, or needed to be looking towards the window and not the flatscreen, Mrs. O'Shanley would not merely suggest it.

She would tell Patrick to make the change immediately. Susan would not dare object. Nor would Patrick, even if it was his own home, even if the furniture had been paid for with his own money.

If his wife's mother wished for something, he as a good and proper son-in-law should grant her wish. Patrick understood this essential fact, it was in the very marrow of his bones.

And though the more Mrs. O'Shanley would boss him and Susan around, the more comfortable and natural she acted doing so, and the more turned on Patrick got.

Orders, commands were plenty. Praise was scant. Nothing Patrick could do or say could ever seem to please her. This tone she had perfected on Susan, and now applied to her son-in-law without hesitation or qualification.

But in his mind, Patrick could imagine how sweet a note of praise, a note of true pleasure from the older woman's lips would sound...

The domineering, mothering tone she took with the both of them, talking to them and ordering them about like they were an unruly brother and sister, and not like a married couple with a hot and active sex life, was like nothing about marriage that Patrick had been prepared for.

Nor had he been prepared to love it so much.

He and his wife were young, skinny and fit, and her mother was chubby, overweight, with amble bottom, hips, belly and bosom, so it seemed natural that she should have authority over them. She was always so prudent, always so prudishly dressed, always so properly religious celebrating every holiday and Holy Day of Obligation with great precision and dignity.

Her chest filled out every sweater no matter how high-necked, and her thighs filled out every skirt, no matter how demure.

She wore hosiery nearly always, and her hose was always classic and pristine.

If she wanted to, she could sit down and put either Patrick or Susan over her lap and spank them, and it would not look or seem the least bit inappropriate. She would be fully dressed, fresh from Church, and they would both be fully nude, two irresponsible adults as mischievous as children.

Mrs. O'Shanley's firm but loving palm would straighten out her two disobedient charges again.

Oh, longed Patrick, as he daydreamed about this beautiful intimacy with his wife's mother. If only, if only!

He knows Mrs. O'Shanley would be quite severe with him, and would pull extra hard on his balls and maybe even miss a few spanks on his bottom's spank spots so his balls got her swats instead, making him pay a heavy but deserved price for all the sex he's had by now with her only daughter Susan.

Patrick knows he would love nothing more than showing the older woman that he can and would receive anything and everything she would give him, and anything that she gives him from her bare skin would be most warmly received.

He wanted her proud of how much punishment his balls could take.

But as the years go by, Patrick has to remain in wait for such violations of the traditional family boundaries, for such restoration of tradition family values were frowned upon in that space-time. As the years go by, Patrick must feel Mrs. O'Shanley's powerful, dominating love through the direction she gives him in what to buy, what work to take, how to steer his life and family in the ways best to benefit her crowing jewel, Susan.

Patrick never resents his mother-in-law's guiding hand, and only wishes for her to at least slip a finger up his asshole as well.

But he never says that out loud, or to Susan.

But when he wants Susan to slip a finger up his asshole and tease his prostate while she deep-throats him, after seven years of marriage she is quick to do it, happy to please him like this. His ass is clean and she's years-since abandoned her squeamishness.

But as his wife milks his prostate, Patrick cannot help thinking how nice it would be if Susan's mouth was still there to receive his seed, but her mother's finger--or even better, her mother's tongue--was up his ass, teasing out that seed.

And with those thoughts, Patrick comes in Susan's mouth, and now, she never misses a drop. All held in her mouth, all swallowed down in one big gulp. All gone, showed off with a proud, loving smile.

Susan is a good wife. She has made them a happy marriage and a happy home.

But, oh... what a happier home, what a happier marriage, they would be, as three.

Patrick finally breaks down, and shares some erotic stories with his wife. Stories about religious groups, sharing love in a Holy way, married couples loving openly in front of other married couples.

Patrick, reading those stories is sinful! she tells him.

Patrick feels the wave of sadness and discomfort, of disconnect. But the next day, he has recovered and is glad when he realizes how smart he was not to show her the stories about husbands who fuck the ever-loving-shit out of their bitchy mothers-in-law, and the wives who love sharing their husband with their mothers.

In the end, Patrick sends a note to his favorite writer.

"Thank you for existing," Patrick writes. "Your stories have been the best written company I've ever had in my life."