This is put together from extracts from my diary and a cut-and-paste from Facebook. Don't expect it to make too much sense timeline-wise; if I wrote that something happened yesterday, it could have been three years ago.
A stiff dose of reality
If you believed and liked everything my wannabe cucky husband wrote in his diary, you probably won't like this, so it's best you just naff off now!
Firstly, I don't have a small army of lovers with huge cocks pumping gallons of cum into me every Friday night. Nor are there any with small cocks. In fact, boring bitch that I am, I have never had a cock other than my sick puppy husband in me! He took my cherry before we were married, and he remains my only lover.
Lover is a relative term these days. I haven't had a good fucking for three years. I'm sorry to say it's getting less and less. It's my own fault to a certain extent; I allowed his sick fantasies to become our norm.
My inaccurately reported raunchy Friday nights out were spent in the main hall of what used to be the miners welfare club in our village. I don't even get to dance; Friday night is bingo night with the old, well-past-it girls and a few shagged-out men who haven't succumbed to black lung yet.
I've decided that tonight all that shit ends; it's Friday, and my sick in the head man is taking me out. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming, he is going to see what a crushingly boring five or six hours he puts me through every Friday night.
In the future, I don't mind what we do as long as it doesn't involve cornflour felt-tipped pens and two little fucking ducks. Personally, I'd prefer to stay in and shag, then we can go out on Saturday instead. In the same place, every Saturday there is a live band and a DJ who both play 50s to 80s music. Both fill the dance floor. Tonight, though, the bastard is going to suffer an awful fate for a man. Much worse than castration with a blunt spoon: miners' welfare bingo. If you have no experience with this, I can promise you, it's dire.
I've told him if he needs me to be his Dome, I'll happily spank him. I actually enjoy that as long as Fanny gets a good stiff poking after. I'll very happily wear the kind of clothes he goes on about in his sick fantasies. All he needs to do is get his very short arms to the bottoms of his very deep pockets and buy me some. He is a tight-fisted bastard.
If he leaves a thick, sticky deposit in my love slit, he can eat that if he wants to. I'll even pretend I enjoy it. The cost to him per night is a few dances, a bag of crisps, and ten quid's worth of Gin and Tonic. You have to admit, I'm a cheap fuck, and everyone says I look good for my age!
I'd leave the idiot but for one very important consideration. I love the twisted fucker to bits; I always have and always will. He floats my boat; he took my cherry on the roof of the bike sheds when we were in our last year at school. Actually, I dragged him up there and gave it to him on a stick for his sixteenth birthday.
He claimed he had fucked hundreds, but that was all bollocks. He was just as clueless as me. He was hot, though, sadly, at school I was not. I just didn't have tits then, not even fried eggs. I grew my hair down to my arse to show everyone I was a girl.
My mum, still my best friend today, knew how self-conscious I was about my plank-like chest. She bought me padded bras and inserts and held me when I cried about my sunburnt feet. Nothing to cast a shadow over them, see!
My friends at school still called me BB, the boobless beast. I thought I was adopted; my mum has a rack like Raquel Welch. Mum said hers didn't appear until she was pregnant with me. I didn't believe her. I thought I had a bright future as the principle boy in the theatre.
When my man eventually got me up the duff with our first daughter, the tit fairy finally visited, complete with her magic tit wand. I was three months gone; the fucking bitch must have battered me black and blue with it. I thought I was going to have to get a scaffolder in for the next six months.
I went from an A cup, where most of the space was cotton wool, to an F, a fucking F cup, for god's sake. My man thought he had died and gone to heaven. I was taking painkillers for the backache until mum sorted me out. She had to make my maternity bras for me. I couldn't buy any big enough. A year later, when my milk dried up, I was left with a pair of hooters that entered a room three steps ahead of me. Sicko loves them, so at least that's some compensation for never being able to find a dress in a charity shop. He calls me his dead heat in a Zeppelin race.
The Big Night
On the bed are one of my underwear sets, suspenders, frilly knickers, and a bra. My Little Black Dress, just long enough for me to wear my stockings with a pair of oh-so-shiny black "fuck me bandy" stilettos I don't have all that sexy stuff he says I have. No leather or latex corsets; no lace-up thigh boots, chance would be a fine thing.
Neither have I ever invited anyone back to our house to fuck me. If I ever do, it will be quite some time after I bury the sick fucker, if at all. I do love him; no fuck that, 20 years on, my girls have both left home, and I'm still besotted with him.
Next to my stuff are his tee shirt, jeans, and smelly trainers. I'll work on the clothes when I've broken him of this self-loathing shit. I am--no, strike that, we are going to get our life back.
After Laura, my second baby arrived, kicking and screaming, but he couldn't get me up the duff again. That was due to a sports injury; some bastard kicked him in the nuts when he played rugby for the pit team. He only has one that works at all, and not as well as it should; the other one is made of rubber. If I ever find out who kicked him, I'll stab the bastard.
My poor, sick puppy has a low sperm count now. The blue line refuses to appear on the test strip. I would have liked a boy, but it wasn't to be. My two girls are enough. They have to be, don't they? I've told both of them I'll disown them if they don't give me a couple of grandsons. I've got a friend from school; poor cow, she can't have any!
