[M4F] Scrambled eggs in the morning

Like all abusive relationships, it started out well enough; I would buy you flowers every now and then, I'd hold you close to me as I fucked you, I'd send you texts in the day telling you that I was thinking about you. The usual stuff. After a year, your lease ended, and you moved into my apartment, so we could save up money for a house.

That's when things started; I'd be a little harsher with my criticisms, and the household chores gradually slid away from the 50/50 roster which we had drawn up after the second day of unpacking your boxes of things. You were still happy though; I made you laugh, and the rent was definitely cheaper. Every time we had morning sex, you made me scrambled eggs afterwards. It was a fun little tradition- playing 'wifey' was cute and sexy. Then we combined finances, and you got to drive my M86 to learn stick, which was a lot of fun. But you started grinding the gears too much, or shifted too early or too late, and I stopped letting you drive it.

Then I put a deposit on a house, in another state, without telling you. The walls were closing in. You tried to smile through it though, and left your friends for the "exciting new life awaiting us", which is what your Instagram said you were looking forward to. Unpacking, you seemed to remember having more clothes; specifically warmer ones, that show less cleavage, and covered more skin. That was a shame, you really could have used your cozy jumper.

Watching the clock as I thrusted into you, you realised that you woke up like this, with me inside you. No matter. You heard my groans as I finished inside you, and you got up to make me my scrambled eggs. It was Tuesday. That meant you had your work interview, for a place back home. You had tried to keep it secret from me, but you forgot you had given me your Facebook password. It's alright, though; you really shouldn't keep secrets, so I was justifiably angry at you. A big thing like a job shouldn't be kept secret from your partner. You made a mental note to return the concealer you bought; it very clearly didn't keep its promise to conceal everything, as the bruise is still showing.

You admitted that the sex was on a bit of a plateau; it seemed like I was using you to get off, and your pleasure was coming secondary. Then I explained to you that not all women can orgasm, and it's selfish to expect me to be able to get you off. Yes. That was what set me off, why you found me in our bed with a young blonde- you were being unreasonable, and it was too much work for me to try and fulfil your demanding expectations.

To my credit, I apologised for it, and we had a good long talk about how you weren't fulfilling my sexual needs. You sat on your knees, tears streaming down your face, and begged to know what you could do to make things better. To fix the relationship. To fix what was wrong with you.

And now, here you are, in the present day; a new woman. You hear the familiar blip of Tinder notifying you of a match. You open it up, and see a gorgeous brunette with ample cleavage (much larger than yours... are you ever going to get that boob job?) staring back at you. You get your charm on, and chat her up, and eventually set up a date that night, at this cool new bar called Pablo's.

Tuesday. You blearily rub the sleep out of your eyes, get off the couch where you dozed off, walk into the kitchen, and begin cracking eggs into a pan. I walk out of the bedroom, yawning, and ask if you slept well. You nod, and ask if I did. I grin at you, and say that it took a while for me to get to sleep. The brunette wanders out in your dressing gown, smiles, kisses me, and asks when our eggs will be ready. You glower at her.