Divorce, Belarusian style

(I was looking for a photo of a girl who looked like my wife. I found some Dеnisе Bidоt. My wife's butt and thighs are a bit smaller, but overall the curves are very similar. Hair, arms, breasts — a perfect match. Dasha's facial features aren't as model-like. She doesn't use that much makeup either. We once laughed together about how she looks like the porn actress Аvа Tаylоr in glasses. Dasha has the same kind of glasses: big, with thick frames.)

How it all began...

At the end of last year, our relationship had completely hit a dead end, and we simply saw no other way out of the situation except divorce. Of course, it all started much

earlier.

Of course! Even seeds look different.

"Before you sow a seed in fertile soil, take a good look at the plant it came from," — if only someone had given me that advice about ten years ago.

But I made a mistake, fell for the pretty packaging, and bitterly regretted it. I should have thoroughly studied my bride-to-be's parents before proposing. Especially her mother, my future mother-in-law. It turns out children perfectly copy their parents and their relationship with each other.

My future wife grew up in a family with a tyrant librarian and a henpecked professor, so she inherited both polarities at once.

— How does that work? — you might ask.

Very simply: at the beginning of our acquaintance, my future wife was the submissive one, then her inner tyrant complex woke up. It was just a complex — she never truly learned to be a tyrant. It was pure capriciousness. So after a bout of tyranny, she always felt guilty, tried to make amends, and slipped back into submissive binges. The first warning signs were there even during the bouquet-and-chocolates period, but I didn't pay much attention. After all, a person in a state of love euphoria has their logical thinking switched off.

My wife has gorgeous curves: butt, breasts, waist. Luxurious chestnut hair, delicate olive skin. Add to that elegant taste in clothes, a cute face, brown eyes, a willingness to laugh at my jokes, and a desire to be led (that's what I called it then, later I reclassified her as a saboteur-submissive), and you get the perfect partner for starting a family.

So I was thinking mostly not with my head, but... well, you know.

Especially since she gave in quickly, and the sex we had was the best I'd ever had. Probably due to her inexperience.

During the courtship, it suddenly turned out she was a virgin! A rare case in our depraved society. Many years ago, my future wife had a bad experience where it hurt a lot, she tensed up, and nothing worked. And after that, she became convinced she had a psychological disorder, a kind of conditioned reflex to pain that prevented her from having sex! That's what studying to be a child psychologist can lead to!

The clinical picture: a virgin beauty, a psychology associate professor at a university, with one big hang-up in her head, had sealed herself off one day and for years had been turning guys down until, finally, driven to despair, she matured for something more, and then I pull out — no, not what you're thinking — an ordinary (!) index finger and slowly break the seal. It lasted all night. I got tired, but it was worth it.

The next time, she clung to me with her hands and feet, and I, after a three-month siege, charged into the fortress at full speed with my saber drawn.

— What are you doing to me? — she was genuinely scared of her first sensations when I, not holding back, started fucking her.

"Now I'll do whatever I want," I thought, continuing to drive my cock into her on the old single bed. She bit, scratched, at first moaned like crazy. The neighbors looked at us curiously afterwards. Especially at her. The soundproofing in panel buildings is terrible. For example, I could hear the neighbor downstairs yawning, some woman constantly saying "Alik!" to him calmly, how their clock chimed every hour. And here we were, fucking like horses. Well, let them be jealous...

So I weighed, as it seemed to me, all the pros and cons, and proposed. Two moments especially moved me: her virginity, naturally, and the fact that even when I officially broke up with her, she still came to see me in the hospital and brought soup. And then I thought: "Ah, to hell with it! Sink or swim!"

But already on the first wedding night, everything fell into place. There was no wild sex, everyone was tired, angry, and preoccupied with what to do with the ceremonial loaf of bread that nobody needed. So I was put on the floor on a mattress, next to me on the bed slept my mother-in-law — a sweet woman, as it seemed then, and how symbolic: mother-in-law on the bed above, me — on the floor below, and my wife for some reason slept in another room on that same battered single bed. That's how it was! As you start your marriage, so you'll spend your married life.

It only got worse from there. My wife got pregnant and her brain completely short-circuited. Everyone was supposed to worship her and dance around her with tambourines. Especially me — the ungrateful bastard living as a subtenant in my mother-in-law's apartment. My father-in-law squatted the best, his knee joints had atrophied from years of training and it cost him nothing to bend over. He was the role model I was somehow supposed to follow. They were teaching me about life, and I was bucking like an unbroken stallion.

The moment of the child's birth — total darkness. Wife in the maternity hospital. Mother-in-law calls me and hysterically screams about why I'm not under the windows with a ladder and flowers. Her whole family turned against me. The henpecked professor-professor was spitting venom when he visited us during a business trip (my wife's parents lived in another city). He didn't think at all, my mother-in-law had brainwashed him so much that he, like a zombie, repeated exactly everything "some woman said." A physics professor, by the way.

I was the evil one in their eyes, I felt like evil. Dirty, depraved, plotting the next villainy (coming home late from work, not taking out the trash when asked). We argued all day, fought over every little thing, I didn't know where to escape from this sawing. I didn't want to abandon a woman with a nursing child either. Besides, my wife was a cunning psychologist. Every time after a "preventive little scandal," she would crawl back, wagging her tail, to ask for forgiveness. She did it skillfully: not "I'm guilty, forgive me," but "let's not fight anymore." And, of course, the apogee of her atonement became a one-sided blowjob. That is, no action from my side, I was supposed to sit, sulking resentfully until orgasm. Then melt, forget everything, understand, and ask for forgiveness.

Seven years, seven damn years, she jerked me around, playing hot-and-cold so much that in the end my cock lost all sensitivity during those blowjobs. I literally couldn't come. That's how repulsive this woman had become to me. I closed my eyes and imagined some young, dumb mistress. Then I'd discharge quickly.

In the end, at the end of last year, we almost got divorced. We would have made another innocent child fatherless. But a miracle happened. We found a solution to the problem, and absolutely by accident.

Conversations about sex on the side started for us about a year into living together. Word led to word. She compared me to other men, I was no slouch either, found a bunch of interesting options. Then she went further and started talking about different men who paid attention to her. Someone would help with the stroller on the stairs, someone would hit on her in the store. Of course, she said all this during arguments, to piss me off. But I understood it wasn't made up. Then she'd run back and say "You're the best!", but an unpleasant aftertaste remained. Especially since the woman had lived to thirty without sex and had only known one man. Somehow I found out that in her fantasies, she imagined herself with two men. The most banal fantasy: one from behind, another in front, her in the middle. And she kept asking what my fantasy was. Hoping, apparently, that I'd fantasize something similar. But my fantasies are harsher. I'm even afraid to bring up that topic here now.

And we talked about divorce almost every day. We'd fight, verbally divorce, then make up, fuck, laugh. And it would all start over.

So in the most hopeless moments of our relationship, I declared with all seriousness:

— Dasha! If you dislike everything so much, why do you put up with it? I'm not holding you. You can find yourself another man right now and get pleasure from him. Fuck his cock, brain, other body parts you find sexy. But finally leave my battered mortal body alone. Find yourself another body for psycho-emotional and physical release! What am I to you — a whipping boy? Well, do you want me to pay you to leave me alone? Let's agree, you won't talk to me for a whole month, and I'll give you 300 dollars right now? Well, do you want it?

That's exactly how I talked to her when we fought. Over years of constant arguing, I achieved absolute perfection in this matter. The trick is to express yourself eloquently, without excessive swearing, and creatively at the same time. Push genius, shocking ideas and do it without batting an eye. Suggest we all go to a monastery or sell the apartment and move to Goa, quit our jobs and move to live with her parents in another city (they had two dachas that could support us), or start a joint business — selling chebureki at the market (she makes them well). But we have to do *something* about this, I told her. Not just sit idly by, wearing each other out!

She changed too. Started often being vulgar, talking about the taste of semen and cocks in the ass, even though she only tried semen once at the very beginning and immediately ran to spit it out in the bathroom. We never had anal either. But every time Dasha ended her dirty jokes with phrases like:

— Horrible, what a vulgar woman I've become with you.

She would never have had the courage to follow through on my suggestion and find herself a lover. Don't forget, she grew up in a puritanical family, in the Soviet Union no less, she remembered when Brezhnev died (!) — there were no cartoons all day that day, in short, she grew up in a society where sex outside marriage was always taboo. Infidelity — a terrible sin.

I grew up on worn-out videotapes with German porn. I still remember every scene and German phrases in detail, phrases I can't understand even after later learning German. Then, when the internet appeared, I was already grown up and didn't memorize such nonsense.

So we're quite the pair. But everything has its limit, and at the end of last year I clearly found out the working hours of the registry office (the very one where we got married) and, without saying a word, went there one day and filed for divorce. I returned home with a calm soul and a sense of duty fulfilled. The storm there hadn't subsided yet, on the contrary, it was just beginning. The child was in kindergarten, what else is a freelancer and an associate professor of psychology to do? Not have sex.

I sat with my laptop, like now, listened to this screaming woman and smiled maliciously. And then silently showed her a copy of the divorce application, and she immediately calmed down. Went to the kitchen, stunned. Sat there for about five minutes. Came back. Smiling, arching her back like a cat, already crawling towards me for a blowjob. Thinks it's that simple. Worked a thousand times, will work this time too. But I gave her — nothing. Politely refused. Then she scurried back to the kitchen. Worked herself up there. Came back, started pontificating about how the child would grow up without a father. How bad that is from a psychological point of view. She knows which buttons to press. My parents divorced too. We again, word for word, had a huge fight, and I started the old song about how she'd find herself another man, one who would be much better.

She usually didn't pay attention to this argument, thought I was joking, but this time she sighed heavily:

— Do you really want me to find another man that much?

— Yes, I want to see someone else fuck you. It's always me, me, me. Maybe if someone else fucks you, you'll calm down, — I was very angry with her. I really did want her to get fucked hard and dumped the same day. Then she wouldn't compare me to other men anymore.

— Maybe, — she looked at me thoughtfully. — Since you want it so much, then you look for him yourself. You're the one sitting at the computer all day.

The idea of finding Dasha a lover amused me. There was some kind of relief, revenge in it. Even if this idea would never be realized. Angry at each other (she was desperately angry), we started fantasizing about this topic. She would do everything with a condom, we agreed. Just in case. By evening, I had already created a profile for her on a dating site. Wrote there that she was married and looking for a lover. We took a couple of photos of Dasha in black lingerie and a lacy mask over her eyes, and the next day the specially registered email inbox almost crashed. I perceived it all as a game. She did too. It's interesting, after all, how many men would want her and what they're like. It was the same game as our angry fantasies before. Neither I nor Dasha fully believed it would happen. But the adrenaline started skyrocketing. She felt the excitement, got aroused looking at men's cocks. She immediately filtered out perverts, but in her heart, she probably regretted some options.

Finally, Dasha and I strangely came to a unanimous opinion (for once in seven years!) that we liked one man. We immediately stated that we needed a person without commitments, decent, preferably married. And soon found one. He had recently divorced and wasn't looking for serious connections. He communicated decently, didn't bite when I tried to steer the conversation towards vulgarity. Explained his reason for meeting a married woman clearly and plausibly. Had no pangs of conscience.

We arranged to meet at a restaurant near our house. I remember how Dasha was nervous, getting ready, as I put it, for a whoring session. The plan: if everything clicks during the personal conversation, she would bring him home, and I would be on backup, hiding in the closet in case he turned out to be some kind of pervert.

I remember how my heart was pounding wildly when I heard she wasn't alone and was opening the door. I peeked through a crack. They came into the living room and first sat on the sofa. Dasha turned on the TV for propriety, a music channel, and suggested having some red wine.

He was a well-groomed, lean man in his forties, with short black hair, receding hairline turning into a bald spot, glasses with thin frames. Introduced himself as Nikolai Pavlovich. There was something aristocratic about his appearance — thin lips, sharp chin, piercing intelligent gaze — that's what we fell for. And he didn't let us down. He didn't tear Dasha's clothes off, as some Caucasian might have done, but slowly unbuttoned everything, delicately. Each little strap himself. He was in a white shirt, black trousers, and socks. When he was left in just his underwear and socks, I couldn't look at his wiry body, which looked emaciated next to Dasha's voluptuous curves, without a smile.

Dasha was more nervous than I was. Breathing heavily and constantly glancing at the closet. Probably afraid of making a fool of herself. She was in a tight-fitting black dress with a modest neckline, dark tights. She had let her hair down. She has gorgeous chestnut hair that cascades

over her shoulders, a pretty face, especially when she's not angry, big brown eyes, olive delicate skin, full sensitive lips — all the attributes of a Ukrainian girl à la Natasha Korolyova. Dasha is from Polesie — the southern part of Belarus, Ukraine is very close there.

Then Nikolai did everything himself: kissed her first on the lips, then the neck, pulled down the top of the dress to her waist, exposing Dasha's shoulders and back. She was wearing a gorgeous black bra embroidered with white Arabic script. One light movement of his hand behind her back, and Dasha's breasts burst free. Tender, juicy melons, crowned with rattle-like nipples, porous from breastfeeding, protruding so much they