The Road to the Big Game (Super Bowl Sunday Part 1)

We’ll get back to the game later, but what you should know is that Marsha Palfry adored her husband, nearly to the point of worshiping him. And Boris adored her as well, so the problem came about not from the emotions felt between them, but from the inability, or unwillingness, to express those emotions.

Boris was her first spouse and she was his second. His divorce from number one had left him scarred – from 14 years of once-a-week visits with a child who had been taught to despise him; from endless scorn of a domineering woman, administered by way of harassing telephone calls, letters and gossip spread amongst their circle of friends past and present; from a replacement husband, whose constant verbal challenges to the ex-husband’s manhood and invitations to do physical battle tested the nerves, because even though Boris knew he could crush the skinny punk-ass like a cockroach under foot, he also knew any form of accepting these challenges would land them all back in court to revisit terms of the divorce and custody.

It was Marsha who had helped him struggle through these last five years of torment, and although he was the perfect provider in terms of money and whatever material needs she might have, the bedroom was a different matter. Here, those emotional scars interfered. Boris Palfry was unwilling to give all of himself to her, fearful of the vulnerability she so desired of him. She yearned to admire, worship and reward his manhood, but was thwarted in every attempt to do so, until their love-making deteriorated to a man-on-top, under-covers-with-lights-out deposit from penis to vagina. She had become nothing more than toilet water spread on their mattress to receive his discharge.

His was the perfect male form, at least in her mind, and Marsha knew it from the moment they met. Introduced by Brian, their mutual friend, she nearly melted when she saw him, and by the time Boris pecked her cheek with a good night kiss, then saw her safely into the apartment before leaving in a gentlemanly manner, she was overjoyed, knowing that 15 years of waiting for the right man had come to fruition.

And she was right, at least in the beginning of their marriage, but the past few months had shown a new Boris emerging – a domineering, belligerent Boris, who more and more seemed to fancy his wife as some sort of servant, put there to jump at his orders. “Get me a beer,” he would bellow. “I’m hungry… fix me a sandwich; This coffee’s weak… make another pot; The bathroom stinks… clean it.”

Unacceptable behavior without question, but Marsha took it without protest. Rather than confrontation, she chose to allow him these aggressions, not because she feared him, but because she couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him. She would not have that on her conscious. This sacrifice became a bubbling cauldron beneath the surface, until in desperation she sought advice from someone who should know, Brian Shields, the very man who had introduced them in the first place.

“Oh, hell, Marsha,” he said when she telephoned him at his work, “you know what he’s been through. He’s just playing the bad ass because he’s never been able to before.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve about had my fill of it.”

“Is he still in Fristoe?”

“Yes, he said it’ll take a couple of days to repair the main line.”

“Ok, I’ll come by the house after my shift ends. Wanna fix me dinner?”

“Sure. What time?”

“Sevenish.”

“That will work. See you.”

Both men had worked for the railroad since graduating high school. Hired on as apprentice conductors, their employment started in the yards, where they learned to switch, make and break down trains. This also is where the friendship began. From there, Brian became a dispatcher, working in the communication towers to direct trains and crews to their proper assignments. Boris rose to level of crew chief for track maintenance, which would require him to travel when lines were damaged from either natural disasters or railroad accidents.

A derailment in Fristoe is what had caused him to be away when Brian knocked on the door of their home. As the avowed bachelor enjoyed a home-cooked meal, Marsha spilled the history of Boris’s ever-increasing verbal abuse towards her, sometimes crying, but for the most part nearly shouting, as weeks of pent-up rage were released.

He was a good listener, and when it was clear she had exhausted herself Brian finagled her towards his remedy.

“Boris is pig-headed, Marsha. He’s been that way as long as I’ve known him. I told him a hundred times about that woman. She was bad news. I could see it, but he couldn’t. All he could see was that juicy twat between her legs. And believe you me, as soon as she had him hitched up and legal, she led him around like a whipped dog, using that pussy of hers for a leash.”

“I know all of that, Brian,” she sighed with exasperation, while clearing the table of dirty dishes. “But, hell, it’s not my fault. Why’s he treating me like shit?”

“Because he can. For the first time in years, he suddenly realizes he can throw his weight around and get away with it. That’s because you let him get away with it.”

“Damn,” Marsha cupped both hands over her face to fight back tears, “I love him so much. I don’t want to cross him, but he won’t let me near him at all. Not anymore.”

“Maybe a little crossing is what he needs.”

“I could never hurt him, Brian, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not about hurting him. It’s about helping. Problem is, he doesn’t realize he’s hurting you. So, he needs to learn that there are consequences for his actions. He should be taught how to appreciate his good fortune, which means you.”

Marsha’s resistance slowly faded to curiosity, then intrigue, as Brian made his suggestions for repair. By the time he’d finished with the spicy details, she was tingling with excitement and training session number one took place that very evening. Marsha Palfry and Brian Shields traveled quickly down the road to saving their best friend’s marriage.

End Part 1. To be continued.

Copyright ©2006 Jardonn

Visit Jardonn’s Erotic Tales