She deeply loved him and respected him.

Really rich. F - you rich. She needed the self-worth that came with being a member of the ultra elite rich. He was away most of the time so she'd busy herself by creating huge ball

erinas out of empty caviar cans. Sometimes, when she would feel guilty that she married just for the money, she would herself dress as a ballerina and pretend to be in Swan Lake.

Her husband never knew whether his wife would be the bloated black swan or white swan when he returned from his business travels but he always arrived wearing tights & a cod piece

. Their Swan Lake fantasy sustained them, but today he arrived home to a note from his wife, which mentioned a suborbital jump. Myofibrillar hypertrophy and NASA tights would

still be in her luggage bag. Damn! That's what I get for not unpacking right when I get home from a suborbital jump. How could I meet my wife? She was already subzoning right now.

I stuffed my bullwhip into the waistband of my jeans and rode my Harley hard to meet my wife. She was unconscious. I slung her over my shoulder and roped her to the back of my bike

& lassoed her 'round my head like it was a road warrior rodeo. "Yeeehhhaaww!" I knew my wife wouldn't mind, even though she was still unconscious. Thirsty now, I pulled my Harley

-Warren's pocket dictionary of Nacaal and asked politely: "What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?". My wife gave out a moan. The sound of Nacaal vowels always

remind me of goats bleating. My wife poured a drink and returned to knitting a green sock. I enjoyed a delightful afternoon and listened to goats bleating...I mean my wife.