She stood there in her black filmy negligee. She was giving me her arched eyebrow look, as she had her chin raised. Her bra and panties matched her negligee, all black lace. Her high-heeled shoes were also black. It contrasted nicely with her pale skin.
"You're taking too long, pet." She said, looking at me as I was unbuttoning my shirt.
I so didn't want to play this game. I hated it. What had once been exciting for me, had lost its appeal, by about... oh,... a long, torturous year.
I undid the last button, and pulled my shirt out of my pants. Then I took it off completely, and pulled a hanger out of the bedroom closet, to hang it back up. I hadn't broken a sweat today, and I felt I could wear the shirt again in a couple of days. A little spritz of water, a fast rolling, and it would be fine.
"Faster," my wife said, impatient.
I shot her an annoyed sideways look. She caught it.
"What was that?" She asked, a little heat in her voice.
I said nothing, as I undid the clasp on my pants, and slid the zipper down.
"What was that look?" she demanded. "You don't give me that look."
"Hey, give it a rest, will you? I'm not interested." I told her as I pulled a leg out of the pant. Pants? I don't understand plurality with clothing. If they are "pants," then why aren't they "bras'es" or "sleeveseses?"
"...What did you just say?" she said, striding up to look me in the eye. Her heels let her do that.
"I said, give it a rest." I told her as I tossed my pants into the hamper. "I'm not interested. I've had a day, and I'm just not going to do this bullshit you.... I'm just not."
She stared at me a couple of seconds, her eyes flared open in disbelief. I was pulling my jeans off a hanger and then slipped into them. The fact I was getting dressed wasn't lost on my wife.
"Fine." She scowled at me. "We're going to talk though," she then turned and walked out of the bedroom.
++++++
I walked into the kitchen, and there she was, poised in the middle. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, and she had that impressive scowl roaring down the lane in third gear.
The paddle was on the kitchen table.
Oh, this was going to be one of those one-sided conversation/lectures, about my place, and then she'd act nice and tell me how sympathetic she was, which would end with her spanking me. Then I'd have to sit and listen while she told me about how she'd fucked whoever-the-asshole-was-for-today.
++++++
This had been our game for a few years. I'd gotten pissed off by the idea of her sleeping with other men, and we'd turned that into an aspect of our sex lives.
It had been good. About once a month, she'd go out, find a willing cock, and go to town with the owner. Then she'd come home, tell me about it, and I would be so pissed off, so angry, I'd absolutely plow her for hours. It wasn't an act of sexual love, it was raw fucking. It was reclaiming what I thought was mine.
All over the house. Behind the house. A couple of times, on the upstairs bedroom balcony. In the car. On tables, furniture, in the shower, over the car hood in the garage, on the neighbor kids tree-swing, restaurant bathrooms, and in friends houses.
All over the place. We'd loved it.
Then, slowly, over time, the once-a-month thing had crept up to being twice, then weekly ... and I stopped counting. That progression took about eighteen months.
My wife, Helen, had talked about the increase with me, openly and frankly. I'd been lost in my own hormonal storm, and for a while, I agreed to almost everything.
Slowly, how Helen and I talked to each other changed. It took time, and I didn't notice it until I sat down and really thought about it, a couple of years ago. I seriously didn't like where we were in our marriage anymore.
Then she started acting dismissive. Followed a few months later with contempt.
That was followed by her giving me "I need you to do something" orders.
Orders preceded routines. Things she expected of me. Most were okay, a couple I wasn't enthused about, but I went along.
In that whirlpool of sex and hormones, I'd gone along with it.
I was noticing it now, and excusing it, because it was still easier to go along...except for the growing resentment. I'd tried talking about it to her, but she'd either be dismissive, or she'd improve for a week, then we'd be back into the situation I didn't care for.
Then one year, that wedding anniversary rolled around.
++++++
I took Helen out, treated her nicely on our anniversary, romanced her, made her smile and giggle. We came home, I made love to her... let me be clear, I loved her long, slowly, doing everything she likes... and she enjoyed it. But that was just it. She enjoyed it.
She didn't get crazy and screaming, like when we fucked. She lay there and took it, essentially.
Then she said "Thank you," turned over and went to sleep.
I was only halfway through my hardon, and she went to sleep?
"Hey," I said, a bit irritated, as I nudged her shoulder, knowing she wasn't asleep as she lay on our bed. You can't fall asleep after having a dick in you twenty seconds ago, so she was putting on a show. "Come on..."
"Joe, stop." She'd said, not even turning her head to look at me. "It's been a nice evening. I'm very satisfied. You've done a good job. Now please, let me get some sleep. I have a date tomorrow."
I stared at her for ten seconds or so, then I asked "What about me?"
Helen sighed, and she said "What about you?"
That.
Right there, I got it.
I see several things as being needed in a relationship, let alone a marriage. Many you can do without, but there's three fundamentals in my mind: Love, trust, respect. The other things are kind of secondary, but very important.
Right then, I didn't love her. I also felt she didn't respect me.
"Fuck you." I said, and got out of bed.
I rode the couch that night.
++++++
Helen was back to being loving for a while, and I think she twigged onto how unhappy I was when she came back from her date after work, and I wasn't interested in reclaiming her, hearing about it, or even talking civilly with her.
I think I scared her.
Then I let myself get swayed back into whatever it was we'd started.
The next week, she was out prowling again, and yeah, I fucked her into submission afterward.
Two months after that, I had new marching orders.
I was to orally service her daily. Once in the morning, and as soon as I got home.
I refused to deal with creampies, and wouldn't touch her if I knew she'd had a date, without cleaning herself before I got to her. I'll do my own messes, but not another guys. That had been a long-time rule.
Then she started wanting me to be naked when I went down on her. I was okay with that, honestly. She would return the favor in the afternoon, occasionally in the morning if time allowed, and I really enjoy getting a hummer.
Except, slowly, the blowjobs dwindled away. First they became less than enthusiastic, then mechanical, then they kind of disappeared.
Then came the second blowup.
++++++
I was going down on Helen, I'd finished the third circling of her labia, and got my tongue in there.
I tasted it right away. That wasn't me.
Some other guys spunk was in my wife.
I hadn't known she'd had a "date" today, which was another breaking of the rules.
I popped up on my hands, my arms holding me up and shouted "What the fuck?!"
Helen looked at me, down her body as she lay on our bed, her knees up and she giggled.
"Surprise!" she laughed.
I slapped her ass. Not playfully.
"AHH!" she yelled.
I was out of the bed, standing beside it, my finger aimed at her.
"You hit me!" she accused.