Religion Can Justify Anything

Rhoda and I had been married for 29 years when she experienced her sexual Renaissance. Considering her strict Christian upbringing, Rhoda's sexual awakening was all the more remarkable because it was so surprising, so sudden and so utterly complete. In less than 24 hours she shed all of her inhibitions and fulfilled every sexual fantasy I had ever had. Unfortunately, I was not the man with whom my beautiful wife brought my deepest, darkest sexual desires and fantasies to light. I was merely a bystander watching my marriage collapse; the only part I experienced was the depth and darkness of despair.

Rhoda and I grew up in a small town in western Montana where the community church had a great influence on all of us. Despite my pleadings and smoothest moves, Rhoda remained a virgin until our wedding night. She was tense and apprehensive but finally yielded all aspects of our marital relations to me after I brought her to her first orgasm. I delighted in watching her groan, scream and shake with pleasure. Before our honey-moon ended, I had learned how to bring her to orgasm every time we made love.

Rhoda was so grateful for my love, patience and tenderness that she rewarded me with her generosity, passion, and devotion. For the first 25 years she rarely said no. Even then, she'd offer, "I'm terribly sorry, but I just am not up to it tonight." Then a smile would cross her face and she would promise, "But I'll make it up to you tomorrow." And she always did, at least within her religious bounds.

Unfortunately, she had been taught that such indulgences as masturbation and oral sex were ungodly and unnatural. As for anal sex, her mother had characterized it as an abomination in the eyes of God. She wouldn't even let me fuck her doggy style, as she was too embarrassed by the idea that I would look at her anus.

I couldn't complain, however, as Rhoda committed herself to pleasing me completely, in and out of bed. We had been married for almost seven years when during a move to our first new house I discovered her day planner in her bedside drawer. Quickly scanning it, I easily deduced that she had been keeping track of how many orgasms she had given me each week for years.

She blushed when I asked her about it, but smiled when she explained, "I know you think my mom raised me to be a prude, but she did teach me the importance of keeping you satisfied. The night before our wedding, she told me to make sure that a week never went by that I hadn't brought you to orgasm at least three times—either with my womanly endowment [she couldn't bring herself to call it a 'pussy'] or my hands."

Rhoda and I lived the typical middle-class success story. I went to college, finished my MBA, got a good job in corporate America, bought the beautiful dream house and the expensive cars. Rhoda stayed at home and had one baby after another, as our church teaches was her duty, and the beautifully slim figure of the 18-year-old girl I had married became increasingly full with each additional child. Finally after six children, and 60 additional pounds, Rhoda finally assented to my wishes and began using birth control, much to her mother's disapproval.

Rhoda and I enjoyed a wonderful marriage, and while some of my friends divorced their wives and married younger women, I remained totally devoted to my sweet, if overweight, wife. Though I wouldn't have considered myself buff, I always maintained my weight. While I was disappointed that Rhoda outweighed me, I still loved her body because she let me enjoy it whenever I asked. She took delight in the fact that I never got into golf because while my friends and associates were doing nine holes, she kept me home on Saturday and Sunday mornings "with only one."

We made love in every room in every house in which we lived. She gave me quickies in naughty places like her mother's laundry room, my office, the janitor's closet in our children's elementary school, a storage room at our daughter's wedding reception, her sister's garage during the family 4th of July picnic, and even the patio outside her parents' home during their diamond wedding anniversary celebration. She almost always wore a lose skirt when we went to parties so that she could take me to a secluded place, raise her skirt and bend over for me. She would often take off her panties and put them in my hand when we would be out on a date, at a dinner party, at her parents' home for Sunday dinner, at an aged relative's home, or even at a church function, knowing that the promise of her pussy would always bring out my best behavior. I always remained the perfect father, loving husband, doting son-in-law and gracious neighbor, knowing that Rhoda would reward me, generously, when we got home. Yes, I was pussy whipped, but as she kept me in a constant state of sexual tension, I loved every second of it.

With those extra 60 pounds, Rhoda may not have been the most attractive woman I knew, but I wouldn't have traded places with any of my friends who had beautiful, yet demanding, and controlling trophy wives. I loved her completely, and unconditionally. I was the happiest man in the world.

It wasn't until it all fell apart that I realized that everything began to change when I took Rhoda on a second honeymoon to Europe for our 25th wedding anniversary. Four weeks after we came home she informed me that she was pregnant.

All of our relatives, including our children, were ecstatic, although our new baby would be younger than several of our grandchildren. Rhoda's obstetrician, concerned by her relatively late pregnancy, insisted that she start exercising and reduce her weight. As her belly and her tits grew larger, the rest of her body kept getting thinner. Her energy and activity increased noticeably; even her sex drive increased until she was practically insatiable.

For the first time, I found myself telling her, "I'm sorry, I'm worn out tonight, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow." I bought her a vibrator hoping it would help her keep the edge off, but she refused to use it, reminding me that she had made a promise to her mother that she would never debase herself by masturbating.

With a careful diet and continued exercise after the baby's birth, Rhoda gradually dropped to 120 pounds, the same weight she had been at our wedding, and her waist measured 24 inches, just as it had before our first child. At five feet seven, with her beautiful long brunette hair, she bore a startling resemblance to Madeline Stowe.

After nursing our baby for more than a year, Rhoda complained to me that her tits had shrunk to practically nothing. She surprised me when she accepted my offer to pay for her to have breast augmentation surgery, and surprised me again when at the last minute she chose larger implants than she had originally selected.

I emptied the savings account I had been building to buy a new Mercedes when her breast augmentation was followed by some intricate and more expensive plastic surgery on her face, neck, arms, thighs and hips. The surgeon who performed her tummy tuck tightened her up like a Victoria's Secret model and her navel was a work of art.

Watching the change in her, I felt like I was witnessing an exotic butterfly emerge from her cocoon. Her physical beauty was accompanied by a stronger self-image, and a self-assurance that surprised and delighted me. As her body morphed from overweight and matronly to beautiful, alluring and youthful, my sexual desire increased to a fever pitch. Unfortunately, each procedure required that I not touch her body while she healed.

The last medical intervention was an hysterectomy during which the surgeons repaired and strengthened her vaginal walls, made necessary by seven childbirths. Rhoda's gynecologist assured me that when Rhoda healed—which took more than ten weeks—that her pussy would feel like it had when we were on our honeymoon.

I was patient when she asked me to give her time to recover from this procedure, and then that procedure, and then the next procedure before we had sex again, telling me that she would make it up to me. I didn't mind the intermittent periods of imposed celibacy as her body healed and transformed, because Rhoda continually promised me that when it was finally complete that we would experience a sexual Renaissance. Considering how richly Rhoda had always rewarded me after telling me, "Not tonight but I'll make it up to you tomorrow," I had high expectations that I was looking forward to many wonderful tomorrows.

"I am so grateful to you for affirming to me how much you love me by spending so much time and money on me," she said as she sat on my lap and kissed me. "I'm sorry that you had to give up your Mercedes, but I promise you that when I'm finished that you can take me for a fast and furious drive any time you want to ride me."

We spent dozens of nights huddled together in our bed watching Netflix as our little daughter slept next to us. At first Rhoda would give me a hand job, but I felt guilty, knowing how sore which ever part of her body on which she had had her latest procedure was. And so, during those seven months of surgeries, recoveries and therapy, I became reacquainted with my hand.

Finally, the last sutures had healed and the doctors pronounced her transformation and repairs complete.

"For the first time in years," she observed as she stood naked in front of the mirror, "I look as nice as you do." She turned to look at me, smiled and said, "Maybe even better."

That night she had sex with me, but there was little passion. Rather than feeling honored and thanked for all my support and love, Rhoda's unenthusiastic performance left me feeling disappointed and.... well..... neglected.

That was my first inkling that "sexual Renaissance" had a very different meaning to her than what I had anticipated. Rather than spending time in bed with me, Rhoda preferred the gym. She became obsessed with maintaining her figure, monitoring her diet, and following her work out schedule. Unfortunately, keeping me sexually satisfied was no longer a high priority.

I had anticipated the need for scar tissue to heal, but I was totally unprepared for the hormonal imbalances than resulted from her hysterectomy. I felt inadequate in trying to deal with her hot flashes, as well as moods. I had no idea that her beautiful new body would be accompanied by her emotional withdrawal from me.

She would give me sex when I asked, but she rarely initiated it; often she would just lie there, merely allowing me to use her body to reach my orgasm, rather than poring herself into bringing me pleasure. While the inside of her pussy was tight, the pain she experienced from the scar tissue on her pussy walls hindered my ability to bring her to orgasm. For the first time since our honey-moon, there were many times when we made love that I couldn't make her come. For the first time in our marriage she experienced sexual frustration, which in turn, decreased her desire. I asked her to let me lick her pussy, confident that the softer touch would make her climax, but she reminded me that oral sex was an abomination.

Rather than enthusiastically jumping naked into bed with me, she started wearing conservative nightgowns to bed. Instead of preparing for bed by getting her body ready to bring me to my knees, she was now covering her face, neck, breasts and legs with some new cream to make her surgery scares fade or to prevent her skin from wrinkling—which meant, of course, that I was not to touch her. Rather than keeping me home on Saturday mornings by bringing me to a slow, powerful orgasm, she left me to watch the baby while she ran to her yoga class. The teasing stopped, the daring quickies became a memory, and her panties always stayed on when we left the house.

Finally, we had the conversation that turned into our first confrontation.

"Rhoda, when is our "sexual Renaissance" going to begin?"

She responded with tears and sobs, and then, "Michael, have you no gratitude for how much I'm putting into making our marriage better? Please give me time to heal, to fully recover."

Then she said the first mean thing I ever heard. "Is sex all you think about? You only think about yourself and what YOU want. What about my feelings? What about what I want? And when was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror. You're no longer as handsome as you seem to think you are."

I was shocked! "Okay, so I've put on a few pounds and my hairline'd receding. I never stopped loving you or wanting you when you were 60 pounds over weight."

She burst into anger for the first time. "Well, I'm no longer that easily manipulated naive wife you could always control to do your bidding. I have a life of my own. I have dreams of my own."

And away it went. Rhoda won our first shouting match as each response she made was filled with increasingly more hurtful things. I finally gave up, and walked to my den to wait for her to calm down before returning to bed. Or attempted to.

That was the first night she locked our bedroom door. It wasn't the last. I kept telling myself that things would improve when she finished healing. I wasn't happy, but I loved her and missed the Rhoda I loved. I kept hoping she would return.

When our baby was two, the last of our first brood left the nest to go to college. Around that same time my company was absorbed by another, larger one, requiring us to move to a new city. As it happened, my new boss was an old friend who had been my mentor twenty years earlier. Ben and his wife Evelyn, both of whom were now in their early 60s, were excited to have us back in their lives and quickly brought us into their circle. Evelyn made sure we joined her church congregation, and that Rhoda sang with her in the choir, as well as participating in the work of her civic and church associations.

Of course, that meant that I received even less of Rhoda's attention, and spent more time performing childcare and household duties by myself. It wouldn't have been so bad if she at least would had made me feel that I had some importance in her life, rather than coming to feel like a distraction, or at times, even an annoyance, to her.

While Rhoda had told me, and everyone else, that her body had finally recovered, I would go days, sometimes weeks without seeing her naked. She often dressed and undressed in the bathroom. When we had sex the touch and feel of her body drove me wild with lust and longing, but our couplings were becoming more rare and increasingly less fulfilling. The one time that I reminded Rhoda that she had forgotten her mother's advise about giving me three orgasms per week, she looked at me as though I were crazy.

"Michael, surely you know we're beyond that point in our lives now. I love you with all my heart, but I shouldn't have to keep myself at your beck and call."

She smiled sweetly as she held my hand, "Don't you think that once a week or so is fine now?"

What was I supposed to say? All I knew was that I wasn't nearly as important to her as she was to me.

And no, once a week or so was not enough for me. But she hadn't even been giving it to me that often.

It all came to an end when my company was bought yet again, by an even larger corporation. Ben came into my office to inform me that the new management was going to be making some sweeping changes, reducing the size of our regional office, and keeping only one of the vice presidents and letting the others go. He quickly added that he would be retiring, and that, due to my superior experience and business knowledge, I was clearly the most likely choice to succeed him.

A week later, on a Thursday afternoon, all of the management team was invited to an informal social gathering to meet the new corporate honchos. Arthur, a Harvard MBA, was in his early 30s and was strikingly good-looking. He was six feet four, with curly blond hair and a strong, square jaw. Lester, a Columbia Law School grad, was a few years older and while not quite as striking, was still imposing, with dark hair, a powerful build and a charming smile.

I smelled trouble when Richard, one of my fellow vice presidents, and thus a competitor for the one executive position that would remain after the restructuring, introduced Heidi, his young trophy wife. Arthur kissed her hand, and Lester went so far as to give her a hug, pulling her big-boobed beach-bunny body close to him. Her husband looked on, beaming with pride.

Rhoda, dressed more stylishly than usual, arrived late. I introduced her to Arthur, who greeted her politely, and then took both of us aside to confide that as Ben was retiring, I was the "front runner" for the new position.

As the three of us chatted together, I noticed Arthur passing his eyes attentively over Rhoda's body, especially her big tits. When Rhoda told him we had been married for 29 years, he was shocked.

"I can't believe that!" Then he looked at me, "Michael, pardon me, but I thought that Rhoda was... younger than you...you know, a trophy wife."

He focused his attention on Rhoda took her hand and gave her that smile and said, "I'm sure you have been told that you look like you're in your twenties."

Rhoda smiled and blushed. I got a sick feeling.

On our way home, Rhoda told me that she thought Arthur would be a perfect match for one of our daughters. "I don't think Arthur's interested in any of our daughters," I told her. "I think he's interested in you."

Rhoda said I should be ashamed of myself, but she was obviously flattered by the thought. When we got home, she surprised me by initiating sex. Oddly, rather than being pleased, I felt used.

The next morning I was buried in my office, poring over my reports for my part of our office's fiscal presentation to Arthur, which was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. I was surprised to see Richard socializing in the hall with some of the other staff, rather than preparing himself as I was, and I mistakenly took that as a sign that he was giving up.

Shortly after lunch, Arthur and Lester arrived at the office, with Heidi, Richard's wife, hanging onto Lester's arm.

"We had a delightful lunch—a very long lunch," Heidi informed us. She turned to her husband, saying, "Richard, Lester told me about the company's plans for the future." She giggled, "And for you."

Suddenly, with a pang of apprehension, I seemed to see my whole life falling apart, because Richard's young trophy wife was obviously about to advance his career by spreading her legs.

When I got home I dejectedly told Rhoda about what was going on, and how Heidi had obviously been fucking my new bosses in order to help out her husband. Rhoda did her best to reassure me, saying that I shouldn't worry, and that she would pray for me. Somehow that didn't make me feel a lot better.

On Friday night there was a formal reception dinner for our whole office staff at a local hotel ballroom to welcome the new company management. When Rhoda and I arrived we found ourselves assigned to a table with three other couples who were obviously not in the running, while Richard and Heidi were seated at the head table, next to Lester and Arthur. All through the dinner I couldn't stop looking at them. It was obvious that Lester's hand was under the table, and it was equally obvious that Heidi was enjoying what he was doing.

Meanwhile, Rhoda, Evelyn and the other wives at our table were talking about our church, our children and our pleasant lives, oblivious to what was happening at the "important" table. After dinner there was dancing, and Rhoda led me out to the dance floor, beaming with the glamour of the occasion, and with excitement over my supposed upcoming promotion.

I shook my head. "Honey, you just don't get it," I told her.

Again she tried to reassure me with positive affirmations and a hug. I couldn't help but look at Heidi, who was dancing each number with Lester or Arthur. After a few dances, Rhoda excused herself to powder her nose.