Author's note: This is a work of fiction which includes themes including cuckolding, BDSM, smoking fetish and oral and anal sex. All characters are aged eighteen or older.
Having found to my dismay that my cigar case was empty (when the hell had I smoked the last one? And how could I have forgotten that it was the last one?) I put my lady churchwarden pipe in my handbag, together with my tobacco pouch, checked that my stocking tops were just visible below the hem of my short skirt, and made my way downstairs. I was going to meet my lover for our regular bout of mid-week fucking, but before I left the house, I felt duty bound to check on my husband, who was, as usual, sat in front of the television in his wheelchair, the inevitable tumbler of vodka in his hand.
My name is Olwen Simpson, and these days, I am what the adult magazines and the porn industry call a BBW - a Big Beautiful Woman. I mention this not out of a sense of immodesty, but to let my readers know exactly what they are dealing with here. I've not always been this size. Let me explain.
I was twenty when I met the man who was to become my husband. At that age I was nearly six foot tall, and 'well covered' as my late mother used to say. I was also a virgin, and incredibly naive as far as sex and relationships were concerned. Meeting David changed all that.
I had left school at sixteen with few educational qualifications, but I walked into a job at our local supermarket. At the time I met David, nearly four years later, he was a sergeant in the police force. He was a huge man, well over six foot tall and built, as they say, like a brick shit house. I liked him straightaway.
Both my parents warned me against having a boyfriend who was ten years and more older than me, and when they learned that he had already been married and divorced, they were horrified. But, to my lasting shame, I paid no attention to their wise advice. The law of the land stated that I didn't need permission to marry because I was above the age of consent, and so barely six weeks after having met David, we got married without telling anyone. It was a very quiet wedding. The only guests were two of David's colleagues, who acted as our witnesses, and one of them 'gave me away'.
I'll always regret ignoring my parents' advice, especially in the light of how our marriage developed. We barely spoke after they learned that I was married. They hadn't been invited to the wedding. David persuaded me that it was for the best, and infatuated with him as I was back then, I readily agreed. It was one of the first examples of David's controlling manner. Ironic, really, the way things turned out years later. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the early years of my marriage.
Our honeymoon was a weekend in a seedy hotel in Brighton. David was working on the Monday following our wedding, but in that short weekend, he succeeded in introducing me to the joy of sex.
Because of the speed with which we got married, my dates were all to hell, and I was on my period the day of the wedding. So the first time I ever had a cock in me was in my mouth, and the second time was about twenty minutes later, and it went up my arse. I loved both experiences, but I couldn't wait to be cunt fucked. That occurred in our own house (David already had a place of his own) the following weekend.
David hated it when I was bleeding. He wouldn't touch me, and he certainly wouldn't fuck me. Well, not cunt fuck me anyway. During my periods of menstruation, I had to take my husband up my arse or in my mouth. Not that either bothered me, and it was because of David's reluctance to fuck me when I was bleeding that I developed a liking for arse-to-mouth sex.
For about four years, all we seemed to do was fuck. I loved to pleasure my husband, and I learned lots of ways to do so. As well as fucking me in all my holes, David liked to cum on my tits and my face. And I adored the taste and texture of his cum. I was very happy. David got promoted to detective constable, and no longer had to wear a uniform. I was promoted to check-out supervisor not long afterwards.Things just couldn't be better, we both thought.
Neither of us wanted children. We didn't want the patter of tiny feet to interrupt our fabulous sex life. We fucked so often and so vigorously that one night, about six years after we'd got married, our bed disintegrated under us whilst David was fucking me up the arse doggy style. We slept on the mattress on the floor that night, but not before he'd cum up my arse, in my mouth (he loved seeing me do arse-to-mouth) and finally in my cunt.
Then, just before our eleventh wedding anniversary, whilst on an emergency call to attend an in-progress bank robbery, David was shot. Chaos ensued when the robbers realised that they were in a hopeless situation. In desperation they tried to shoot their way clear. Thankfully, no-one else was injured, and the thieves were all apprehended and after a short trial (they didn't have a leg to stand on, and all of them pleaded guilty) they were eventually given long prison sentences.
But David saw none of this. He spent eight months in hospital, and then nearly a year in a rehabilitation unit, where they tried and failed to give him the use of his legs back. The bullet that hit him injured his spine, which meant that he would have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
When he eventually came home, David was a changed man. I had to do everything for him. I didn't mind, because I loved him. I missed the fantastic sex, of course, but at least I had my husband back.
Except I didn't. David was morose, uncommunicative and downright hard work. He still had to endure long sessions of painful physiotherapy as part of his rehabilitation. The surgeon who operated on him refused to sign him off so that he could try and go back to work. When the news came through that he was no longer considered fit enough to resume his job as a detective constable, David retreated even further into his shell. The police service were great with him. They offered him a desk job, but he never even considered it. He took his pension and sat at home, moping. He never went out, he began to drink heavily and what little self respect he still retained gradually faded until it disappeared altogether.
At the time that I am writing this, it has been just over eight years since his accident. I have just celebrated my forty first birthday (with an absolutely mind-blowing celebratory afternoon of disgustingly filthy sex with my boyfriend) and my relationship with my husband has totally disintegrated. We live together under the same roof, but we rarely speak, and to all intents and purposes, we live totally separate lives. Mine involves work and seeing Paul for gorgeous sex; David's revolves around drinking, watching porn on the TV and occasionally shouting vile things at me, whenever I say or do something that he doesn't like.
I parked the car at the back of Paul's house, out of the gaze of nosey neighbours, and walked around the corner to the front door. As he knows he is required to do, he was waiting for me in the hallway when I put my key in the lock and walked in.
Paul likes to be dominated. A good firm hand spanking gets his cock beautifully hard and then I allow him to fuck me. That what was on the cards for this evening.
He took my hand and kissed it.
"I've missed you," he said tenderly.
I grinned. He'd last seen me about three hours ago, on the shop floor of the supermarket where we both worked. Despite his youth, Paul was a store manager, thanks to the university graduate scheme that the company ran. He'd joined the business straight from university, and had been sent to manage our store. He was a popular member of staff. All my colleagues liked him. I was the only one who got to fuck him.
"Living room," I commanded. "Trousers down and prepare for a spanking. I'm gagging for cock."
We walked hand in hand into his living room. He began to undress and I started to unbutton my blouse. We watched each other. His trousers came down, followed by his underpants. He stood there in his shirt and a pair of socks.
"Socks off, please Paul," I said. "This isn't one of those terrible porn films where the man always seems to keep his socks on."
I took off my blouse and unclipped my bra. My huge tits (47DD), released from their confinement, flopped into view. Paul sighed contentedly. He'd be playing with them very soon, he knew.
He scrambled out of his shirt and knelt naked at my feet.
"May I?" he asked in a shy voice.
I nodded and he unzipped my skirt and pulled it down. I stepped out of it, moving closer to him in the process. He looked at me and licked his lips.
"You shaved," he whispered hoarsely. "You look beautifully pink and smooth."
I smiled at him. I never wore underwear to an assignation with Paul. We'd been lovers for just under a year, and in that time Paul had educated me into performing most of his favourite fetishes. I'd never shaved my cunt for David. But Paul had asked so nicely that I'd agreed straightaway.
