I was fucked off with our regular Saturday routine and having loads of Tom's friends descend upon our apartment while the game was shown on our eighty inch TV. I get that he's a sports enthusiast, but we were only three months married and the weekends were already taken up by slovenly drinkers scratching their balls while treating me like a waitress.
"I wouldn't eat the salted nuts any more if I were you because most of your friends are scratching theirs before dipping the same hand into the bowl you're eating from."
"Noted darling. Are you helping out with our guests this time?"
"It's not so much the helping that bothers me as being treated like the help in my home. I can't stick this crap much longer."
"Okay Zoey, we've been over it too often now. I don't care much for your friends either."
"Do I ever place my friends above you, Tom?"
In fairness to him, he shook his head and looked sheepish.
"No, you don't. Never."
"Do I invite them into our home, ever?"
"No."
"Have I helped you for the last two months every weekend with your pals?"
"Yes."
"That's because I love you unconditionally."
I stared at him, hating any argument between us, so I made like the UN and declared neutrality. It was fortunate that his first guest rapped on our door because my eyes simmered like pools of lava amid an ocean of volcanic dust.
He hesitated, with his head spinning from me to the door and back.
"It's okay Tom. If you'd rather play with your friends than fuck my desperate pussy then crack on and enjoy yourself."
It was with some satisfaction that I noticed his face drop. Perhaps a sharp shock was exactly what my husband needed to waken him from a senseless afternoon of drinking.
"What's that supposed to mean Zoey?"
"I need cock, honey."
"What the fuck?"
I was almost inside our bedroom and nonchalantly swung around while walking backwards, jabbing my finger urgently for Tom.
"You'd better get that door. There's more important shit than me on the other side of it for you, husband."
Inside our bedroom sanctuary, I locked the door. It wasn't to keep my husband out, but I wanted to shower and dress without disturbance to get out and meet my friends. I had no intention of punishing Tom, but neither would I hang around like an accessory.
I languished under a warm monsoon rain shower, dried my hair and groomed my pussy in case Tom came to his senses later. He prefers freshly shaven labia when servicing me with his mouth, and I like the feel of a soft warm tongue on silky smooth skin, too.
With my Agent Provocateur, Nyxie panties and bra under a black, skin tight cocktail dress and six inch red heels I was set for the late afternoon and early evening session at Gustaf's Wine Bar on Main Street with my oldest pals.
When I walked through our bedroom door into the living room, eight guys froze except for the cocks that hardened. I felt pleased Tom noticed me and strolled to him, kissing his lips gently before waving at the others.
"See you later sweetie, enjoy the game fellas."
Tom's jaw hit the floor and I thought perhaps a small lesson was learned. When I closed our apartment door behind me, I paused to listen and heard one voice, louder than the others.
"No fucking way would I hang out with you lot if I were married to Zoey. You're a fucking idiot, Tom."
"Mind your own business dickhead."
I walked downstairs feeling smug and with my self esteem lifted by a few notches.
Gustaf's was throbbing even in the afternoons because his food and wine selections were exquisite. Someone said the patron had owned a Yugoslavian vineyard and ski lodge before the war and learned how to create a great apres ski atmosphere.
Carla had reserved us a booth for fourteen with our own waiters and five ice filled buckets chilling Moet champagne.
"What brought you out today, Zoey?"
"Tom's got his friends over."
"Ahh, I see."
"What do you see, Carla?"
"He's taking you for granted, babe."
"Maybe a little but he's a good husband."
"Yeah, for now, but he's won the sperm war in your pussy and doesn't need to work hard for you."
"The what now?"
"We're studying it in psychology. There are theories that male sperm competes in a woman's reproductive system to inseminate her when she takes multiple sexual partners. It's also suggested that husbands thrive when competing with others to mate with their woman."
"Okay, that's just fucking weird, Carla."
"Not really. If you think how keen Tom was before he married you to now, you'll understand. He's won the competition to have you and he's eased off."
I relaxed back into the deeply cushioned leather sofa's that made up our booth and thought about what my oldest friend had said. It was true that my husband was less attentive, but I didn't think that problem was symptomatic of a bad marriage.
My ex-boyfriend, Clark arrived, kissed all of my friend's on the cheek, then tried to hit my lips. I turned my face sharply, unwilling to re-engage a failed relationship. He kissed my cheek gently and I tapped my glass with his.
When Clark sat down beside me I waited until he became engrossed in a conversation with Carla and then slipped sideways out of the booth.
I rescued a half bottle of champagne from our table and collected a spare glass at the bar on the way past. The main lounge was crowded, so I used the stairs and went to a snooker room on the first floor that I knew nobody used on a Saturday.
It was cool, dimly lit and cosy in the old wooden panelled room. I closed the door, shutting out all noise and placed my glass and bottle on the green baize following that closely with my ass.
As I swung my knees back and forth a lewd thought came to me. I retrieved my phone, spread my legs and took a photo up my skirt. I checked to make sure my panties were absolutely straight, covered my moist slit and that I'd captured a great angle.
I selected Tom from my contacts and sent him the tawdry image.
Within seconds, my phone vibrated and I smiled knowing it was my husband.
That's not fair. Why don't you come home, please?
Why don't you cum to Gustaf's? I have privacy in the old snooker room for fun if you'd like.
Love to babe but we're into the game.
Okay. XOXO.
He didn't even respond with a kiss, which irritated me but also started my thinking of Carla and our conversation about sperm wars.
Without thinking about it, I hopped off the snooker table and poured another glass of bubbly, drinking it down in one. With a measure of Dutch courage, I ran my hands up inside my cocktail dress, stuck both thumbs in my panties, and slid them off.
