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By Sadtrick McAwful

She gets home late, at about 9pm. The hot California weather had bore down on her during the commute home; although her doctor’s office had central A/C, her car had warmed in the parking lot like a convection oven. Sighing, she drops her keys in the bowl they keep next to the door. It’s simple, made of ceramic and purchased from a vendor they found in Israel during their wedding. G_d, was it really that long ago? More than a decade at this point…

Slipping off her plain black flats, she notices that the house is surprisingly quiet. Normally, their children would be out and about, playing with each other or on their electronic devices (if they were especially well-behaved that day). They wouldn’t even necessarily be making all of the noise that children are known to make, as he had raised them to be disciplined and to respect authority. The family had a certain dynamic, one that she dutifully played her part in. Despite her education and doctor’s salary, especially the doctor’s salary of a resident of California, he had made it known early and often that he would be head of the household. No feminist nonsense had ever entered their home; the notion was inconceivable to him. She obeyed, as was expected of her.

Where were their children? She notices a single lamp left on in the living room, perhaps a gesture from him to let her know that all had not fallen to pieces in her absence. All is well. All is quiet, and orderly, and peaceful.

Climbing the stairs, she checks in on their children. Their daughter is lying in the dark room, sound asleep. She’ll be six this year… or is she already six? Tiptoeing softly into her room, she kisses her on the forehead and kicks herself for not being around as much as she should be. Their daughter will be a young woman before they know it, and life as a doctor doesn’t always let one experience the joys of family life.

Closing the door softly behind her, she next moves to her son’s room. He’s four years old and full of boyish energy, but his father must have tuckered him out all day; he was in dreamland, his junior-sized MAGA hat hanging on his bedpost and toy guns strewn across the room. She kisses him on the forehead as well, taking care to avoid the hazards on the floor. Under his father’s tutelage, he would learn to respect and even wield real weapons one day, in defense of his life and the lives of his loved ones. As any good American should.

She wouldn’t even bother with the baby. Passing her room, she hears no sound and thanks G_d that she had somehow fallen asleep this early. She would get maybe two or three more hours of respite before she was summoned by banshee-like wailing only comparable in volume to a BLM protest. Rubbing her temples, she remembers what the single lamp in the living room is for and silently groans. That’s why the children are asleep so early.

She prepares herself to enter their bedroom. She recalls being so full of joy when they first saw it. Spacious, with a lovely bathroom and a walk-in closet full of suits, polos, and white coats, it was a sight to behold. They had painted the walls a light gray. He referred to the color at the time as akin to the dull gleam of the machines in American industry, the backbone of our economy; to this day, she preferred to think of it as the color of clouds fresh from a summer rain. She takes a small breath and exhales quickly before entering their bedroom.

Those light gray walls are barren, save for a small American flag hanging over his desk. The mahogany desk is covered with papers and essays strewn about; she had given up long ago on asking him to leave work at the office. After all, an editor-in-chief’s work is never done, according to him. Her white walnut desk on the opposite side of the room is comparatively more bare, with nothing more than a tube of mascara and a small copy of the Torah decorating its surface. She did have a cyclamen flower frozen in clear resin that she used to keep there; he had gotten it for her during their wedding. She remembers why she doesn’t keep it out anymore as she turns to face the man on the right side of the bed who hadn’t glanced up from his computer once during her entry and brief survey of the room.

His face illuminated by his computer screen, Ben Shapiro has the look of a man on a mission; whether tonight’s was researching how to own the libs or rushing to the defense of the President’s latest tweet is unclear to her. Ever since Kamala had been announced as the Democratic VP candidate, he had been like a shaken bottle of soda ready to blow. On weekends when she was home, he would lock himself in his study – a different, more concentrated area of literature than his bedroom desk – and took his meals poring over his computer and writing notes feverishly in as low of a voice as his could go. He would not touch her and would barely speak to her, beyond the occasional “She’s utterly ridiculous!” and “Why would he choose her?

She hopes that she will be left to her thoughts tonight and goes into the bathroom to get ready for bed. As she slaps on black sweatpants and a gray tank top, Ben mutters a bit to himself, reaching a skeletal hand below the bed with lightning-fast precision to grab one of his spare notebooks and a pen. By the time she finishes brushing her teeth, the entire first page had been covered in writing that looked as unintelligible to her as the way she signed prescriptions. Because she was a doctor.

She returns to the bedroom and lays down, plugging her phone in and placing it on the side table next to her. She looks over once more; Ben has returned to his computer screen, training his beady eyes on the words as if he was a never-blinking police dashcam. She turns away from him, hoping that the worst was over, but is startled out of her entry into sleep by the closing slam of his laptop.

He turns to her, seemingly filled with a new fire, and asks vehemently, “Dearest, let’s say, hypothetically, although we have just brought a new child into this world, I wanted to have you produce another for us. Would you let me do it?”

She feels her hope for a good night’s sleep crumble to pieces. Sighing, she replies in as groggy of a voice as she can muster, “Not tonight, my love. I’ve had a long day.”

He sits up abruptly, his little eyebrows furrowing for a millisecond. “Well, why not?” he retorts, a bit too loudly. His voice always seemed to have the same volume when speaking to another person. “I am your husband, you are my wife, and it’s perfectly logical, if we assume that husbands and wives should show each other their love in both physical and emotional ways, it is only natural that we should attempt to procreate at any moment. The children are in bed, and we are alone. It is the perfect time. Don’t you agree?”

Any attempt to placate or bargain with him would end in his shame and resentment, and she was not prepared to deal with that upon coming home for the next few days or weeks. “Alright,” she agrees begrudgingly. Slipping one leg out of her sweatpants, she turns completely on her back and spreads her legs for the golden mean between her discomfort and his satisfaction. She hadn’t worn any panties, remembering the lamp when getting dressed for bed and deciding to make it as quick as possible to get dressed again after he was finished.

As if anticipating what she was thinking, he gets up from the bed and stands at the end of it, continuing, “I even left the lamp on in the living room for you. This is a sign – that you and I agreed upon – that should be used to indicate that I am aroused and prepared to have intercourse with you. I had hoped that you would have remembered its use and implication.”

“Yes, Ben, I remembered,” she replies. “Begin the intercourse.”

His face breaks into a boyish grin and in a flash, he unbuttons his navy-blue shirt. He tears away his pants in one fluid motion. Underneath the tear-away pants, he wears a red thong with a white logo emblazoned on the front: it’s from ExpressVPN, tonight’s sponsor. Still spread eagle, she waves her hand to signal him to proceed, and for the next minute and thirty-seven seconds, he explains in great detail the benefits of using a VPN to mask one’s personal files and search history from ISPs and potential hackers.

Ben hops impishly onto the bed and inches closer, reassuring her that “he’ll send her a link later to get 15% off her first three months of ExpressVPN.” He kisses her mouth as voraciously as the President chowing down on a delicious Trump Tower taco bowl. As she lies motionless, his finger traces down her stomach to touch her groin. It doesn’t find its intended position, as a tomahawk missile would, but meanders around her labia, like a Joe Biden speech. He repeatedly asks – no, demands an answer – whether she “likes that” into her ear. She grunts affirmatively.

He sits up suddenly. “There may be a problem, my love,” he says gravely, his post-Kamala grouchy countenance returning. “Your vagina seems to be a bit moist. Is anything the matter, medically speaking?” Cocking his head like a bird, he asks, “You are a doctor after all. Are you alright?”

She refuses to meet his eye and replies, “Everything is fine. I checked earlier. Please continue.” Truthfully, a residual amount of urine remained after she relieved herself in the bathroom while dressing for bed. He had never made her sexually wet.

Ben nods, now laser-focused on his new mission, and slips off his thong. He positions himself nearly in a plank and guides his now-erect four-inch penis to touch her labia. He uses those skeletal fingers to pry open the lips of her vagina and force his member inside of her.

He thrusts with all his might, lightly shaking their bed. His emaciated chest heaves with effort as she remains silent during his penetrations. After what very well might have also been one minute and thirty-seven seconds, he thrusts one final time, grunting and groaning in his rapid tenor as he shoots his seed inside of her. Rolling over her to his side of the bed, he sighs with a “whew” that carries an air of finality.

She slips her sweatpants back on wordlessly. He hadn’t bothered to remove her shirt. He had never been much of a tits guy; he mostly just seemed to be a guy. Bolting upwards, Ben Shapiro addresses her and says, with no sign of exhaustion, “Now, light of my life, is the most important part. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that the best way to conceive a child is to put a pillow under your hips after completion of intercourse.”

She turns back away from him and closes her eyes, hoping for sleep to free her, as he continues. “Naturally, if this is the best way to conceive, and we are working to conceive a child tonight, you should obviously choose this course of action immediately or near-immediately after I’ve finished inside of your vagina.”

The baby cries. She opens her eyes, gets up from the bed as he continues talking, and goes to try and lull the baby back to sleep. As was expected of her.

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