Marriage Can Be Fun?-Part 1
By Wanderer
Janice chases her MBA while Frank chases the French maid.



This is adult material. Please do not read if you are under age 21 or laws
in your country forbid you to do so. Any similarity to actual persons,
living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.


Earlier parts of this story may be found on the Wanderer bookshelf. They
should be read in the following order:

   1.Who's In the Closet Now? (Parts 1, 2, and 3).

   2.We're Back In the Closet Again (Parts 1 and 2).

   3.The Engagement Party (Parts 1 to 5).

   4.The Engagement Party-Epilogue (Parts 1 and 2).

      (You may have to look around a little for these).

   5.The Engagement Party-Epilogue Two (Part 1).

      (There is no Part 2 so don't look for it).

   6.My Big Deal Social Wedding.


This story, "Marriage Can Be Fun?" is the continuation of the story of
Maddy, Jim, Janice, Frank, and now introducing Alice, the French maid.


Copyright 2002 by Wanderer.


The day after the wedding (See "My Big Deal Social Wedding") we left on our
honeymoon trip, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Witherington II. And that
confirmed to me why I accepted their daughter's offer of marriage, despite
her being candidate number one for anger management classes. Mr. and Mrs.
Witherington II offered up one of the Witherington company's fleet of
planes or the Witherington yacht. We could have chosen the two hundred foot
Witherington luxury yacht with its forty man crew, but the plane was faster
as Janice needed to be back for school in six weeks, and the plane could
reach inland areas where the ship couldn't go. The plane that took us
around the world was pure luxury. I mean there was a fax and some phones
for Mr. Witherington when he traveled, but most of the plane was devoted to
opulence. Imagine! A Jacuzzi, a swimming pool (with a cover designed to
keep water from sloshing out during take-off and landing), two full time
chefs (one specializing in French food and one in Chinese food-Janice likes
Chinese food) in case we didn't like the local cuisine wherever we landed,
a fully equipped gym with a certified personal trainer (Janice wouldn't
dream of letting her muscles go soft and squishy), a masseuse, a hair
stylist, a manicurist, and so on and so on. It would have made a top-notch
Paris hotel blush with envy. And it was all mine! Well, not really all
mine. I wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for the lovely and gorgeous
and mean spirited and nasty bitchy Janice Witherington, my wonderful bride
of a day.


I knew what she was like, of course, having first met her when my sister
and my college roommate, James Pettigrew Witherington III, announced their
engagement. I, my mother and father, and my sister Maddy were all honored
guests at the Witherington estate for the engagement announcement party,
and I guess Janice took a shine to me. I tried my damndest to avoid Janice
but at one Christmas celebration (I usually went to those because the
Witheringtons were fond of giving sports cars as Christmas gifts) Janice
announced to me that "I have decided you will marry me, Frank."


Now those of you who have read earlier parts of this story know that it is
very dangerous to use a word connoting negativity in the presence of
Janice. When she had decided something you risk serious physical harm if
you go against her decision. So I carefully weighed my response (for about
five seconds as I didn't like the angry look beginning to show on her face
as she awaited my reply).


On one side of my decision making was a sweet looking, almost ethereal,
gorgeous woman with a mean temper whose strength and physical development
easily dwarfed mine, even though I was considered a good athlete in
college, and on the other side was my job in her father's company, my mid-
six figure salary, the opportunity to share in the good things of life that
I would never be able to afford on my own, such as a honeymoon trip around
the world in a private luxury plane, and so on and so froth. Maybe I could
change her after marriage, I thought. Yeah, right.


As the scowl on Janice's face deepened, I said, "Why of course, my love,
you honor me by your proposal. I gladly accept. I was hoping we could come
to this some day, but I wanted to be sure you were ready. I thought you
might want to acquire your MBA degree first." Am I diplomatic, or what?


"Then why did you wait so long to say yes?" Janice asked, suspicious of my
slow response.


"Oh, my love, I was so overcome with your proposal it took me a few seconds
to find my voice," I lied. That seemed to mollify Janice, and she put me in
a bear hug, lifted me off my feet even though I am a few inches taller than
she is, and more than a few pounds heavier, and I knew that was my cue to
bend down and cover her face with passionate kisses and little nibbles and
bites. She was delighted and turned her bear hug into a cradle hold and
carried me up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom suite where she
raped the hell out of me all night long. Janice was never embarrassed about
our sexual relationship, she having used me to lose her virginity (See "The
Engagement Party," Part 1). She admitted to me that her primary motivation
for marrying me was my pecker, as socially I was way beneath her. Any of
the males in her social group would have been only too happy to marry into
the Witherington Fortune 500 company. But none of them knew about her ugly
temper and her outrageous muscularity. She never attended a swim party and
her couturier took great pains to design her clothes in such a manner that
her muscularity was well concealed. Oh, maybe a little broad in the
shoulders (he couldn't hide everything), and maybe full length puffy
sleeves were a little out of style, especially for summer wear, but so
what? For the men in her social group the Witherington money more than made
up for any little idiosyncrasies she might have. But with me she didn't
have to be furtive about her physical prowess. I mean she had already
beaten me up a number of times when I displeased her, and so now I knew
what was expected of me, whereas a new beau would require intensive
retraining as I'm sure many of them had the mistaken idea that they should
be head of the family unit. And besides which I must modestly admit I was
quite handsome, and also adept in the bedroom, i.e., I knew what would
please Janice. She had no patience to be indoctrinating some new lover on
how he was to service her.


And so it was that we flew around the world on our honeymoon. The itinerary
was plotted for us by the Witherington company travel department, with
input from Janice, and wherever we landed there were government officials
of the highest order to greet us since the Witherington company had
factories in many foreign lands, employing hundreds of local people. And in
those countries that had no Witherington production facilities we were
treated just as well, or even better, as they were all eager to get some
investment in the local economy from the Witheringtons. I was proud to be
associated with the company, but of course Janice Witherington WAS the
company, and so the politicians fawned over her and largely ignored me,
even shouldering me aside in their haste to occupy a space close to Janice.
But Janice would say, "Oh, by the way, this is my husband, Franklin Thomas-
Witherington (Janice had decided that I was to take her last name as my
married name). Immediately everyone's attitude toward me changed, and I was
an instant celebrity. Even though it was a blow to my ego to have to take
my wife's last name as my own, and to be known as Frank Witherington
instead of Frank Thomas, I could see that there were some decided
advantages. I could call up and say "I am Frank Thomas-Witherington," and
whatever it was that I wanted would be delivered within the hour by special
messenger to our hotel suite or our plane if that's where we spent the
night because local accommodations were not up to Janice's expectations.
Wherever we landed there was a liveried chauffeur with a stretch limousine
waiting on the tarmac to take us to the finest hotel in the area. Usually
we had an entire floor reserved for us. We had knowledgeable guides,
usually the head of the local government tourist bureau or the American
ambassador if there was an embassy nearby, superb cuisine, the finest
wines. I could never have had this experience without Janice and the
Witherington name. And on interacting with the local government officials
it didn't hurt the Witherington name that Janice spoke French, German,
Turkish, Italian, Japanese, Chinese (many dialects), Japanese, Russian,
Hindi, Pashto, even Urdu, although we decided to skip Pakistan this trip
because of the recent unpleasantness in the area. And I, of course, speak
English.


I never said Janice wasn't smart. In fact, she was brilliant. She had a
photographic memory. If she read it once that was enough to remember it.
Frequently she could even tell you the page that the information had
appeared on. And that was what worried her brother, and my best friend,
when it came to the question of who would succeed their father as head of
the family business. Intellectually she could run rings around her brother,
but his advantage was that he was a male, and how many women run a Fortune
500 company? Not many.


The only downside of our trip was that I was within easy reach of Janice
should my behavior not meet her requirements. I mean I was from the western
part of the United States, from a middle class family, and even though they
had sent me to one of the finest universities on the East Coast for my MBA
still they had to scrimp and save and sacrifice to manage the tuition. With
Janice's family the same university had a business building named after the
family, called Witherington Hall, which the family had donated. But then it
was a charitable contribution from the Witheringtons, it was a tax write-
off, and it only cost them fifteen million dollars.


I was used to barbecue, hamburgers on a bun, and beer, whereas Janice was
used to pate de foie gras, truffles, caviar, and champagne, so I guess I
made some social gaffes, not intentionally of course. But such faux pas in
front of American ambassadors or high ranking foreign officials were not to
be tolerated because they reflected badly on the Witherington name. When we
got back to the plane Janice would back me up into the bulkhead and keep me
pinned there, or put her hands under my armpits and lift me off the plane
floor, my feet dangling, while she lectured me.


"Frank, you embarrassed me tonight, I told you that you are never, never to
embarrass me or, now that it is yours, the Witherington name!"


"I'm sorry, honey," I would say, "I'm used to a knife, fork, and spoon, how
was I to know there was a special fish fork?" But there was that famous
Janice anger again. She would shake me a little bit, or a lot, depending on
how angry she was, usually enough to make my teeth rattle. I was plenty
scared because I always had in the back of my mind that one of these days
she was going to get fed up with me and throw me off the plane-at 30,000
feet! But I needn't have worried. She would just carry me over to the
nearest chair, sit down with me face down across her lap, one of her legs
thrown over the both of mine to hold me so that I couldn't escape, pull my
pants down and spank me. I told her that spanking should be reserved for
children, not adults, but she said "How else am I to impress on you the
importance of proper social behavior?"


I tried to explain to her that she could withhold sexual favors, like any
normal wife would do, but her response was always "What? And deprive myself
of orgasms? Are you crazy? No, no, I'd much rather discipline you with a
good sound spanking whenever you misbehave." So much for reasonability.


We finished our six week around-the-world honeymoon on a high note. Paris,
no less! Every night was a festival! And every night I got my ass
blistered. I don't know how any culture can develop so many special forks,
spoons, knives, and every other damn eating utensil known to man! Most of
which I didn't know how to use or even what they were for. An escargot
fork? A special caviar knife? I guess it's because eating is such an art in
France. I must have gained twenty pounds. If Janice gained anything it must
have gone to her muscles because my ass was never as sore from Janice's
spankings as it was at the end of our honeymoon trip. So I was very happy
to get home in time for Janice to enter the fall semester at the University
for her MBA degree.


One of the company planes was assigned to take her to the university town
every Sunday night so she wouldn't be late for class Monday morning, and
pick her up Friday night and bring her back to the landing strip on the
Witherington estate. From there it was just a short limousine trip to our
home, where I was sure to be awaiting her at the door with a vodka martini,
shaken, not stirred.


"Did you have a nice week, dear?" I would solicitously inquire.


"Yes, Frank," she would say. "Did you behave yourself all week?"


I knew what she meant. It was very important to her that I conserve my
strength during the week because every Friday and Saturday night she would
fuck my eyes out, and usually she got in a couple good ones on Sunday
afternoon before flying off on Sunday night. She practiced abstinence
during the week at school. Not because she was such a goody two shoes
because she could have any guy she wanted on campus, either through her
sensual wiles, which were considerable, or by force if that was what it
took, but she didn't want talk getting around campus about her massive
musculature, or someone taking advantage of her because of the Witherington
name, so she saved herself for me-lucky me! I mean I didn't mind the first
couple times every night she was home, or even the third and maybe the
fourth, but by the fifth time my manhood was plenty droopy.


"Please, honey," I would beg, "don't you need to get some rest after a hard
week at school?"


"Hell, no, Frank, this energizes me!" she would say. "I look forward to it
all week! You'd better get it up before you make me mad!"


 Well, of course, the more she ordered me to "Get it up" the less I could
do. That's human nature, I guess. She would get exasperated and leave the
bedroom for a while to blow off steam, as she put it, and I think she went
to Alice's room, but I was too afraid to ask. All I know is, when she came
back to our bedroom she always had a smile on her face. I knew for sure
they had sex together before because of the one night I walked in on Janice
with Alice sitting on her lap, Janice's hand disappearing up Alice's skirt.
I'm not so sure that I was Janice's first, as she claimed I was. I think
Alice got there before me. But that was OK with me. Janice wasn't my first
either, although I had never done it with a man, not even Jim, Janice's
brother, who was my roommate at the university for two years.


It was very dangerous to make Janice mad. Do you deserve a spanking? (One
of her less violent procedures). Do you deserve to be seriously pummeled?
What saved me from serious facial disfigurement was her need to have me
appear at public gatherings as her escort. But every night that she was
home from school she would remind me who was boss.



"Come here, Frank," she would say, as we got ready to retire to bed. It was
an order, not a request. "I need to do a little stretching, baby." Then she
would put one hand under my armpit, the other on my crotch, and up I would
go, over her head. Yes, that always reminded me that I was number two. I
was continually amazed by the ease with which she lifted me over her head.
Down I would come to touch the top of her head, and back up I would go. Up,
down, up, down. I don't know if it was her hand palming my crotch, or the
gazing down at her deep cleavage and those sizable breasts expanding as she
took a deep breath before making the effort to push me overhead again, or
some weird response to being so dominated by my wife, but whatever it was
she could feel my erection as my heart raced and pumped more and more blood
into my penis. Then she would giggle, "Oh, I think you're ready, hon," let
me down into her arms, carry me over to the bed where she sat on the edge
with me on her lap, and proceeded to remove my pajama top and bottom, all
the time fingering my erection to make sure it stayed up like she wanted.
And remember, I'm a couple inches taller and at least ten pounds heavier,
maybe twenty. I felt like a little kid sitting on his mommy's lap.



Then she would deposit me on the bed, on my back, and get on top of me,
hands resting on the bed beside my head, and I could reach up and feel
those massive twenty-two inch biceps, and believe me, it was plenty scary
when she got pissed off. Occasionally she would let me be on top if I
begged hard enough and she would reach up and wrap those arms around my
neck and pull me into her very ample chest, smothering me, or I could reach
up and feel those massive biceps as she rested her palms behind her head
while she tossed me up and down with those sexy, flexible hips of hers
while holding me tight inside her with her pussy muscles. There was no
escaping until she was ready to let me go.


God, I was so glad when Sunday night arrived and I could hear the limousine
at our front door waiting for Janice to take her to the plane for school
Monday morning. The last thing Janice would say to me every Sunday night as
she put one husky arm around my waist and lifted me off my feet, I think
just to remind me who was boss, was an admonition. "Be good, dear," she
would say.


"Of course, dear," I responded. But Janice was so intense about her need
for sex when she was home that I think she instilled in me an addiction
that was hard to suppress during the week while she was away. I controlled
myself the first month or two that Janice was away at school during the
weekdays, but then I started casting my eye about for a little Monday to
Thursday action. Besides which, I considered myself something of a
Lothario. I mean, how many men have the appeal to attract one of the
richest women-to-be in the world? I had to have it, so I started looking
around the office for who was available. I had to be very circumspect, of
course. I knew instinctively that Janice had told Alice, the French maid
that had practically grown up with her, to keep an eye on me. I wasn't
about to blow a good thing, at least not in plain sight of Alice. Those two
women had become such buddies I knew Alice would have no loyalty to me.


Alice came to work for the Witheringtons as kind of a nanny- lady-in-
waiting-companion for Janice when Alice was just fourteen years old. Her
father had been hired from France to be the Witherington Mansion sommelier
when Jan was only twelve. They kind of grew up together, played together,
talked together, whispered and giggled together, shared youthful
confidences together, went shopping together, and when Janice's father
brought in a tutor because Janice on a whim decided she wanted to learn
Japanese or astrophysics or Urdu Alice was right there to also pick up on
it. So it was really no surprise to me when I walked into my home late one
evening, or was it really early one morning, because it was about 2:00
a.m., and Alice confronted me.


"Where have you been, M'sieur?" she questioned me.


Imagine such audacity. Me, me, the lord of the manor, being questioned by a
mere servant. "None of your business," I said, the anger apparent in my
voice. "How dare you question me?"


"It is my duty," Alice responded.


"Your duty? Your duty? Who the hell made it your duty?" I raged.


"Madame Janice," Alice answered. "I am to keep an eye on you and to
discipline you should you misbehave," was her response.  Now I was really
angry. This little twit, maybe 5' 2" tall,

was going to discipline me, me, a guy six feet tall and fifty or sixty
pounds heavier? And her employer, to boot? I shouldn't have done it, I'm
not that kind of a guy, but I pushed her. I pushed her hard. On the
shoulder. She stumbled back a step, mouth open, eyes widening in surprise.
And then I raised my fist to her. Maybe it was the pent up emotion of being
so dominated, first by my little sister, who threw me into the closet, then
by my wife, I don't know, but I was seeing red. I just wanted to strike
back, to lash out at all females, and this one just happened to be standing
right in front of me. All I could see was another female who was going to
tell me what to do, how to lead my life, and I had had it. I aimed for her
jaw. I could have hurt her bad. I could have maybe even killed her with
that one blow, I don't know. I mean she was a little girl, although
sturdily built, about 5' 2", maybe 140 pounds, going to be hit by a six
foot athletic male with two hundred pounds behind the punch. I knew I would
regret hurting her, but at that point I was so furious I didn't care about
the consequences.


Alice reached up, grabbed my wrist. Stopped my hand in mid-flight. With her
other hand she launched a blow at my jaw. I missed. She connected. A
dimness, a darkness, began to envelop my consciousness. I lost control of
my nervous system, I began to slump to my knees, that much I was aware of.
My last conscious thought was, I'm not reaching the floor, something is
holding me up. Something under my midsection. I felt myself rising, being
carried. On someone's shoulder? Where to? Who? Alice?



To be continued in "Marriage Can Be Fun?" Part 2.