He lay on top of the bed, reading. Just reading. He'd read for an hour, actually. Completely ignoring me. And he was looking so cute, with just his sweats on. He can't do that, I won't let him—be so cute and ignore me at the same time. I stomped out of the room. Nothing. No reaction. I went into the bathroom and drew a bath. Sometimes he would come in to pay attention to me and ogle my better features while I'm taking a bath. After ten minutes in the bath there was nothing. No movement. No sound. That does it. This calls for the nasty stuff.
I climbed out of the bath, dried myself off quickly (and none too well) and then grabbed some laundry cord we keep in a drawer. As I stormed out of the bathroom, I also grabbed the letter opener that sat on a table beside our living room couch. I marched right in and grabbed his book away from him, tossed it aside, and put the letter opener on his throat. "I've had it with you," I hissed. "Don't move. Just lay there nice and still and no one will get hurt." With one long glance over my glistening body, he wasn't even thinking about that book anymore. Heck, he may never pick it up again.
With one hand I pulled down his sweats and underwear, just so they were below his knees. His penis lay on his stomach, but it wasn't fully hard. It was as if he didn't know what to make of this wild woman. Heck, I didn't either. I've never seen this woman before. But here she was, angry and horny and... well... ready to hurt someone. I'm not like this. I've never been like this. But I was today— oh, I was. He thinks he can have my affection and just treat me like a servant, not seen, not heard until he's ready for me? I am steamed just thinking about it now! No, he had to learn his lesson. He won't ignore me and get away with it. I made sure of that.
So there I was, a letter opener at my husband's throat, and I had pulled his pants off and was saying, "Nice and slow, now, just put your hands up over your head." Could I be arrested for this? Would he put a restraining order out on me? At that moment, I didn't care. I took the cord and tied his hands together, and then wrapped it to the frame of the bed. I put it under the bed, and wrapped his feet together, and tied it to the other side of the frame. "Cozy?" I purred angrily. "We're gunna have some fun now. I hope you're paying attention." Of course he was. He noted every move I made.
It is a measure of his trust that he allowed me to tie him up at all. Even if he thought I really had a knife at his throat, he could have easily taken my wrist and got up and walked away. I suppose he wanted to see how this would play out. And who could blame him? His naked wife walking in, making demands of him? What husband wouldn't want to see what she wanted?
At the same time, every man has a measure of their sexual interest. As the gauge rises, so is their interest and expectations. My man watched me carefully. Now, usually—and I know this from experience—if he had seen me perform the calisthenics I had just maneuvered in the nude, his libido gauge would have been pointing on high. And perhaps I would have allowed him to engage in some lewd play, just for his own exercise. But after watching my breasts rise and fall, me bend before him and twist about—he was still soft and supple. Not what I wanted at all.
"What do you think this is?" I stormed as I grabbed his limp penis—not so as to hurt, mind you. "I've seen better cocks on a dog! And what am I supposed to do with it? Run it up my leg like limp hose? You can do better than this!" I walked across the room and grabbed our liquid lubrication. I opened it and turned it upside down over him, but not squeezing. "Look," I growled at him, "I know you want it. You know you want it. You want me to open my legs up and give it to you, hard. But I can't until you get hard. It all depends on you. I'm going to keep dripping this lotion on you. If you want me—and I know you do—just get hard and I'll rub it on you. All over. I'll rub my chest against your chest, and you can have all the pleasure you can stand. All you have to do is harden up."
I begin dropping little bits of the lubrication on his chest. I have the bottle high above him (I notice that he is staring at my breast, stretched out, taut) and see if I can hit his nipple. Dang! An inch below. Darn! A bit above.
His voice cracked as he answered me (that's what you get when you don't talk to your wife for hours!), "But if you would just touch me a bit, I'm sure..."
"No, no, no, no. You don't listen very well, do you?" There! I got it. Now let's try the other one. "I'm not going to touch you. Not any part of you. Until you harden. So you better sit up and notice." I got the other nipple on the second try. It's not so difficult, is it? Now let's try his nose...
And that's when I noticed his eyes closed--- "Ah, ah, ah—no fantasies. You've already been engaged in a fantasy through your book for hours now..."
"It was only a half hour..."
Oops, I hit his open mouth. He spits a bit. "Oh no, longer than that, m'boy. I want you to look at me, really look. Gaze at me longingly, stare at me and harden in anticipation at the delights that my body will give to you." Ah, I got his nose. Of course, his face has quite a bit of lubrication on it now. I bet that really itches. Dripping like that. Oh well. Down to his feet.
As I pass his midsection, I look at the gauge. Not really any better. You'd think he'd at least try. You don't suppose that secretly he's really enjoying it, but he's just hiding... I glance at his gauge again. Nah. Some things a guy just can't hide. This is one of them. What's the matter with him? Is he becoming incapable?
