Something was off. Mercedes was different, and Sam wasn't sure how to feel about it. Her hair was always perfectly curled, not a stray hair to be found. Her loud, erratic, infectious laugh had turned into a small, subdued giggle. She used to sleep in, but now she would be bathed, fresh faced, clothed to a T in a dress (always a dress), and made-up before 6am. He'd asked her why she never wore jeans anymore, and she smiled a smile he didn't recognize before responding with "Because that's not how a lady dresses, sweetheart." Sweetheart? Sure, he loved it when she wore dresses; they displayed her curves from top to bottom, and not to mention easy access. But he missed being able to watch the natural sway of her hips in a nice pair of pants that shaped perfectly to her ample backside.

Then there was her cooking. She was always a decent cook, but if Sam had ever fixed his lips to ask her to spend hours on three meals a day (including a multiple course dinner), plus snacks, she would have laughed and told him to go to hell. Now, that's exactly what she did, and there were always left overs. And everything was always perfect. That seemed to be a common theme in their life recently: perfection. Everything had to be neat, clean, and happy. All of a sudden, kitchen sex was forbidden. The Mercedes he knew would have gladly let him take her on the counter and simply taken a disinfectant wipe to the surface afterward. One time, she was watching a movie with him and was okay when he began trailing kisses down her neck, but froze when his fingers began to travel south of the equator, telling him that it was "entirely inappropriate" (this was the same girl who let him finger her in a Tilt-A-Whirl). She then shut off the television and led him upstairs, to where she promptly removed her clothes, folded them, set them aside, and laid down on the bed. Usually, seeing his lingerie-clad wife laying on the bed waiting for him would have excited him, but this was strange.

Carrington was his idea. She had her Grammy – several, actually – and he had his children's books. They'd been married for 6 years now, and already had enough to retire. Of course he didn't want to retire yet; he had tons of ideas, and she seemed to get more talented every year. He just figured they needed to settle down for a while. They agreed that they wanted kids, and after looking at a brochure, Carrington seemed like the perfect place for that kind of thing. It was a small town in New England, populated by couples with kids, couples with kids on the way, and old couples; really family oriented. Mercedes was immediately side-eying the lack of black people, but she was fine when they realized how nice everyone was. The women confused him though. They were always smiling and waiting on their husbands hand and foot. During the day, they would meet at some "Women's Club" and do God knows what. He finally got Mercedes to go, so they could laugh about the ridiculous things the women said or did, and she came back like…this.

"It's for the best, man," Puck said, putting his feet up on his coffee table. Sam met Noah "Puck" Puckerman when he went to local gym to see what it was like. They ended up playing one on one for a couple hours, and though Puck was a little different, he was glad to have made a friend in Carrington.

"But you don't question the fact that your wife is suddenly acting…weird?" Sam sat next to him on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees with his eyebrows furrowed. He'd come to see Puck to try and get some insight into what was going on, and was met at the door by his wife, Quinn. Her long blonde curls stayed in place, even as she tilted her head and held out her arm to let him in, her smile almost blinding him. Since he'd sat down with Puck, she disappeared. "Probably getting started on the Turkey for dinner." Puck said, explaining it away.

"Who cares? All I know is since we moved here I haven't heard a thing about the damn fashion industry. If I never have to fly to Milan and sit through her runway shows again, it'll be too soon. Now she just pays attention to me. It's a nice change."

Sam sat back and hung his head over the back of the couch. He was beginning to think Puck wouldn't be much help. But he had to vent to someone.

"But…Mercedes is not…herself, you know?" Sam said, turning his head to look at his squirrel-headed friend.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, like…the sex." Sam's voice lowered at the last two words. He was cautious, not sure if they were close enough to discuss it, or what he was like about that kind of talk. But when Puck moved his hand in a 'continue' motion, Sam nodded and went on. "It's fantastic, yeah. But she like, lets me do everything. I'm always in control now." Puck raised an eyebrow.

"And what the hell is wrong with that? If I even mentioned doggy-style around Quinn two years ago, she'd cut my dick off. Now, it's awesome. She doesn't even question me." Puck snapped his fingers, and like magic, Quinn emerged from their kitchen, presenting him with a beer. Puck looked at Sam after taking a sip and asked, "Want anything?"

He just shook his head, staring at Quinn. He was more than a little freaked out, even after she walked away. He shook his head again and went on.

"I didn't marry a girl like that. We were always give and take in the bedroom. I told her what I wanted, and she told me what she wanted."

"Why does it matter if she only does what you want though? It's good."

"Yeah, okay, it is. But I liked it when she was in control sometimes. There's just something about making your girl feel good. The fact that I could turn her on turned me on," Sam confessed, a smirk pulling at his lips at the sudden memory of her screaming his name and him kissing up her body from his previous position between her legs.

"I'm beginning to think you have a vagina." He snapped out of it and looked at Puck before rolling his eyes.

"What so, to be a guy, I have to be selfish?"

"Yeah! I know I am, but I own that shit," Puck said, smiling. "But honestly, what are you complaining about? Do you know how many guys would sell their soul for a chick that washes your clothes, makes you fancy meals, takes care of the baby, gives you the power in the bedroom, looks hot all the time, and never bitches about anything?"

Sam had to admit; when things were laid out like that, it did sound ideal. But it wasn't him, and it wasn't his wife. When they got married, he actually looked forward to the idea of having a kid or two, and taking turns changing diapers and getting up in the middle of the night to stop the crying. He looked forward to cooking for her sometimes, or even cooking together. He didn't want a perfect wife, he wanted his wife. His Mercedes would stay up all night watching the Sci-Fi channel with him, laughing hysterically at the obvious scientific inaccuracies and bad acting. She would wake up late in the morning, only to go to the bathroom and get back in bed with him to sleep, make love, or lie down and talk about anything and everything. His Mercedes didn't care if he saw her without make-up, because he'd long since made it known that he thought she was gorgeous at all times. His wife refused to let people step all over her, not even him. Above all, his Mercedes didn't change for anyone. That is what baffled him most about all that was happening. She meets the women of this town and makes a total 180?

Who were these people and what did they do to his woman?