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One Way Marriage By Xavier Couperin
“There’s no turning back now, my baby-dicked little husband. I won’t allow it. You were given every opportunity to show me there was something of the man I thought I’d married still left to you and you declined each and every one. Now that door’s shut. By being where you were, and how you were, when I came through that door you committed yourself to me “ and I intend to see you keep that commitment.”
A husband loses it all to his wife. After becoming financially dependent on his wife of ten years, the once macho Martin Kent finds himself forced to accept that not only has he been relegated to the role of dogsbody and flunkey but he will also have to come to terms with the fact his wife will be stepping outside of their marriage ” with both sexes. Includes Female domination, male submission, M/m, cuckolding with men and women, cock cages, cock rings, chastity, oral service, humiliation, dog training, multiracial sex.
Cover Art © Subbotina Anna – Shutterstock.com
I remember the exact moment it all began; though Fiona’s take on the genesis of my fall might date from a little earlier and, now I think of it, is probably the more accurate observation of the two:
“You just don’t do it for me anymore,” my wife of ten years said, settling a pair of still full breasts into a black bra; breasts that continued to defy the pull of a gravity made greater with each passing year – though not so pristine she could decline a helping hand from Gossard.
Wrapped in my bathrobe and stepping into the bedroom from the en-suite, I’d looked across at her; not sure if I’d heard correctly and, if I had, unsure exactly just what it was I didn’t “do” for her anymore.
“I’m not with you, love,” I told her. “What don’t I do for you?”
She was getting ready for the office, about to get dressed before she took off to the Insurance Company in London where she had just been promoted to Office Manager. Leaving her recently unemployed husband to scan the jobs vacant pages before wandering down to the Jobcentre in his latest and, most probably (it did indeed turn out to be the case), luckless attempt to rejoin the workforce.
My lack of success in the job hunting field crucial, I now know, to the success of her own ambitions in my regard.
I watched as she pulled on some skimpy black panties, plump buttocks peeking out from under the fabric; the same buttocks I’d always wanted to slam my cock between on route to drilling her anus.
Her response always being in the negative:
“When you can bring yourself to go down on me, I’ll think about it. Until then…”
Going down on her, as she well knew, something I didn’t consider very… manly – my reluctance, if a certain HBO drama had it right, something I shared with any number of Mafioso and Italian/Americans of a certain age.
My refusal to dance oral attendance on her pussy leading to the off-limits sign she subsequently placed on its reverse; only too aware of my penchant for it –how could she not have been- and denying me even a kiss on those wonderful, smooth and plump, buns from then on.
Though, as a testament to my willpower and even with such a carrot dangled before me, I didn’t cave.
Oh, yes, Martin Kent –that’s me- might have ruled the roost but, when the bridal bonnet happened to find a bee occupying it, his wife was no pushover.
Warning signs hinting at a possible coup, the king –me- paid no attention to whatsoever.
To those of you scanning this confession with similar delusions of household omnipotence?
Read on and learn.
“When I say: you don’t do it for me,” she explained, smiling sweetly, “I refer to your tiny cock.”
“It just doesn’t get me there anymore.”
I remember staring at her with total bewilderment as she pulled open the drawer containing her hose, my sudden inability to speak suiting her fine:
‘“Not that it was ever that brilliant,” she went on with a snort. “Let’s be honest: you can’t make candyfloss with a toothpick now, can you? “
Anger had sidelined bemusement now and I switched to the dark look I always adopted to let her know it wasn’t wise to mess with me.
Not that it was winning me much respite lately:
“Is this a joke, Fiona?”
“If it is I can’t say it’s ever made me laugh,” she replied with a sneer, running a hand through her short, pageboy cut, hair; my “Dark look”, predictably, having failed to work its magic.
The law of diminishing returns, as mentioned above, having decided to kick in with a vengeance about a year previous to this particular morning fracas.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly,” she told me, searching the drawer.
I shook my head with disgust, buying time to think up a suitably withering riposte.
Too much time, as it turned out:
“How long have we been married now?” she asked, beating me to it, buttocks assaulting my vision as she bent over to get deeper into the drawer.
My anger sidelined now as panic took over.
Had I missed another anniversary?
Was that why she was being such a ballbreaker?
“Ten years,” she supplied the answer for me – as if I didn’t know.
I waited for the point to arrive – there was always a point.
“Which is ten times more than any orgasms you’ve given me.”
My relief another year hadn’t passed without my noticing immediately receding as anger made a comeback:
“Bollocks!” I told her, really pissed-off now. “You expect me to believe that?”