Best Wife
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

I married my first wife when I was young. All my friends had paired off and had steady girlfriends, and she thought I was great, so I guess I was attracted to her for that reason. We did things with other couples, and as they got married the big question was when we were going to do it. She suggested a date and so I proposed. That was it.

We had three kids. That was probably one more than I wanted, but I love them all. They are my flesh. I am happy to be together with all of my kids, but there came a time when I was not so happy to be together with their mother.

People grow apart … or whatever. I just put up with her. She was always demanding and yet never gave me much. She was lazy, not good at looking after the house, a lousy cook, not great in bed, and not as good a parent as I was.

I am not saying I was blameless. You can probably guess – I have my opinions. But I think I am a good person, and better without her.

And after we separated, I found that my business took off too. I paid her out with the house and a lump sum for alimony and then I went to work. There was extra effort, sure, but without her, my head was in the right space. Things went well.

I had my kids every second weekend, and I tried to make that at least a three-day weekend, sometimes more. That is giving your kids a better part of you. After all, when their parents were together, they hardly saw the real me. They just saw the man arguing with their mother.

People asked me if I would consider remarrying, but I always said no. My friends who stuck with me after the divorce would sometimes set me up with women, or even put my profile up on dating sites. I just never found somebody suitable.

“Women are too demanding,” I said. “They want to change you and if they can’t they hound you. If they succeed in some way, then they grow to hate the changed person. Women run hot and cold. You never know who you are going to wake up next to. If only there was a woman who really knew what a man wanted. I am not talking about a servant, but an equal - someone focused on my happiness, not just themselves.”

Ok, so I can go on like that. But I really felt that I was not going to put my hand back into the same fire. I had been burnt once.

Before I start to talk about Crystal, I should state quite clearly that I am not gay. I would not be ashamed of it if I was, but I am not; or that is my opinion, and you may have another.

One of my friends had a younger brother. I never knew the guy – he was much younger that both of us. This friend asked me whether I would consider giving this brother a job, because he was finding it hard to get work “in his present circumstances”.

“He is trans,” this friend of mine explained. “You know – a sissy boy. Living as a girl full time. He is clever but can’t get the job that he is qualified to do because of the way he dresses. If you say no, I understand. But I have to ask – could you give him a job.”

I looked at the resumé and it was just what I needed. It is not that I am a “positive discrimination” employer or anything like that, I just figured that I needed somebody and why should I care what they wear to work provided that it is tidy. So I gave Crystal an interview, with my HR woman beside me.

I have to say that I spent most of the interview trying to see how anybody could mistake this woman for having ever been a man. She had a great body with big breasts under a sensible top, and she had dyed blond hair worn up in a professional style, and she was pretty in a clearly feminine way.

She looked like a woman, so I treated her like one. Sissy boy seemed like an insult in so many ways. I started to think that his brother, my friend, was a bit of a prick.

I think that I could see the way she looked at me, even then. But I am a man, so I guess I just read it as admiration for my achievements as I outlined the business. She just hung on to every word. It is a sure way to ensure that I would give the nod of approval. But my HR assistant confirmed that she ticked every one of her boxes too, so she got the job.

Although she worked mainly in another part of the building, she made a point of bringing stuff to me personally, and when she did it was often accompanied by a beverage and a tasty treat.

“I love to bake,” she said. “I am just a homebody at heart.” Her food was always great. Other stuff too. She said: “I would love to cook for a classy dinner party, but it is just me.”

She lived alone, just like I did. But she cooked and I didn’t – except a plastic tray in the microwave.

I am not sure if it was her idea or mine, but when some overseas visitors suggested a traditional home-cooked meal, she was happy to act as chef and hostess. It is a hard thing for just one person, as I am no help at all, but she did an amazing job.

After they left, I went into the kitchen where she was washing up and offered to pay her for acting as caterer and pay her well.

“No, please. I enjoyed it. I love to cook, and I love people. And your guests were charming. I had a wonderful evening.”

She had cooked and served us and sat with us at the table and nobody had thought for a moment that she was not what she appeared to be - a woman. Perhaps I had drunk a little much wine, but I don’t think so. I was grateful and she was modest and accommodating. And she was dressed well with those impressive breasts on display, and somehow the apron on top of that outfit made her look even better – if that was possible.

I just kissed her – on the mouth. She was a woman, and I was a man. I suppose I was her employer and should have respected those boundaries, but this was my home. It seemed to be not a big issue.

But before I knew it we were in bed and I was fucking her like a man possessed. It never even occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever entered an anus. It was there and it was on offer, and it was tight and squeezing me with practiced skill. It drained me dry.

All I saw and felt were her soft jiggly tits and her long blonde hair. And those eyes. I knew what that look was now: She adored me. There is no aphrodisiac like it.

That is her making me French toast the morning after. The panties and the stockings and that apron. I love that photo. The morning after our first night together. And every morning since seems just as good.

She moved in. My kids love her just as much as I do.

I have a code. No workplace relationships, so she had to resign, once I made her another offer, one where the relationship is the job.

So I married again after all. Maybe just not to a woman, although she is one of those legally now. But she still jokes that: “Sissy boys make the best wives”. Who could argue? Not me.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2020

Author's Note: Just one of those things I do, riffing on this image ....