Revenge for a Ruined Anniversary

My wife is a big girl, just the kind I like. At 5'7" and 310 pounds, with a full belly, broad hips and thick arms and thighs, she fills out her size 22 dresses beautifully.

For the first four or five years of our relationship, the sex was magnificent, especially when she decided to get an IUD so we could get rid of condoms. With her gorgeous face and body, the sex was fairly frequent too. Just spooning in bed in the morning would give me a hardon, with my dick casually tucked in between the cheeks of her big ass as I try to hold all of her tummy in my arms. Hell, surreptitiously watching her doing her things around the house in a negligee that didn't quite reach the bottom of her ass was amazing. Every time she bent over, I'd get a glimpse of her fat, shaved pussy, and sometimes the curve of her hanging belly as a bonus. She knew I loved her sexy body and took every opportunity to press her soapy body against me as we showered, or brush her ass or tummy against me as we passed in the narrow hallways of our apartment. I loved her size and her shape.

Even better were the times she'd be walking around in the house after we'd fucked. I totally got off watching my cum and her wetness peeking out from between her pussy lips when she bent down to pick something off the floor. Just that would often get me hard again, almost instantly if it was oozing from her asshole instead. I'd often masturbate thinking about her beautiful wet, sloppy, sexy, messy pussy, all framed by her soft, generous thighs and plump lips, when she was out of town on business. Good memories. Very good.

Over the last couple of years, however, the spark and the lust just seemed to fade away. I'm not sure why. Maybe I got too used to a good thing, or maybe xHamster's excellent selection of hot homemade BBW and SSBBW porn numbed me. Either way, she stopped trying to be as sexy and seductive as often as she used to, and I suppose I stopped trying as well. We were going downhill fast, heading to a place where we were roommates more than lovers. Her work trips seemed to come more and more frequently, as were mine, and I didn't really mind.

Our relationship really started to hit bottom when I was away on a business trip over her birthday a year or so ago. Normally, we'd go out to a really fantastic restaurant and indulge ourselves with top-notch food and wine, but a cancelled flight left me stuck in Houston. I could tell she was pissed off when I got home, even though it wasn't my fault. Our next special event was Thanksgiving, and an emergency plant shutdown had me out of town for that too. She was livid. And, most recently, it was our anniversary, our eighth.

I'd promised that I'd be home, and I'd made a point of buying her some brand new jewelry and booking us a table at the best restaurant in town, to try to make up for both her birthday and Thanksgiving. Of course, I got screwed by work again; this time, I wasn't out of town but in the office rushing to complete our quarterlies. Again, not my fault. We'd had a server meltdown and by the time the data were recovered, we didn't have weeks but days to finish everything.

I called home around 6:00, just after my boss told me we'd be pulling a mandatory all-nighter to finish the financials. I was dreading the call, but the "mandatory" part of mandatory all-nighter meant that my job was on the line if I abandoned work. If she was pissed about me missing her birthday, she was going to be absolutely enraged when I told her I'd be bailing on our anniversary too. The fact that my ten-year career was at stake wouldn't likely matter. I'd made a promise and I was breaking it. As I expected, she was furious when I gave her the news. She told me that she'd spent the afternoon picking out what she was going to wear, that she'd had her nails done and her pussy waxed, and that she'd just spent the last hour doing her makeup. Now, she said, bitterly, I'd ruined all that.

There was a pause in our conversation as I groped for something to say that might fix things. "You know what?" she said, in a voice that was suddenly soft and sweet, "fuck you and fuck your promises. Tonight, I'm going out anyway, and I'm not going to some shitty restaurant. I'm gonna go have some fun," putting a weird emphasis on the last word. And then she slammed the phone down. I called back to apologize and try to smooth things over, maybe make plans to go out for dinner another night, but she didn't pick up. I called ten minutes later, and she didn't pick up that call either. I tried calling and texting her cell instead, with no answer and no reply.

It was impossible to concentrate on the quarterlies after that. At first, I was worried about her, her mood and whether I'd managed to shoot the final torpedo into a relationship that was already sinking. Later, though, I began to think about her plans for the night, and the way she'd said she was going to have "fun." Where was she going? Was she going with her friends or by herself? Would she be there when I got home? What was she doing? Was she okay? She still wasn't responding to my texts, and I was concerned.

I returned to a cold and empty apartment at 3:00 in the morning, exhausted from worry and from having pushed myself through three months' worth of numbers at a breakneck pace to get home as soon as possible. There was an empty wine glass and the stub of a joint on the coffee table and I could smell a hint of perfume in the air, the special one she wore when she was feeling sexy, beautiful and horny. I helped myself to a beer and, not knowing what else to do, I sat down to wait in the armchair.

I awoke, startled, from a poke to my chest. The apartment was pitch black except for the reading light behind my chair. My wife was standing in front of the chair, her legs on either side of mine, wearing her short red jacket.

"I did have fun tonight," she said, "don't you want to see what I wore?" Without waiting for my reply she opened her jacket. Oh my god. She was wearing a clingy black miniskirt that clung to her lower belly, hips and ass, and couldn't have gone more than an inch below the curve of her butt, a black crop top that managed to show off both her tummy and breasts to perfection, and, around her neck, the new necklace that I'd bought her for our anniversary and which she'd plainly found. My jaw dropped open. She was gorgeous and telegraphing her sexuality. Her body looked so lush and inviting in the soft lamplight; her skin, and the sexy stretch marks on the sides of her belly, seemed to glow. "Do you want to see the underwear I picked out?" she said, "I think they're one of your favourites..."

But instead of lifting up her skirt or tugging her crop top down, she reached into her purse and pulled out a strappy red bra and panty set. "These," she smirked, "look really good when they're on." I was stunned. "I decided to go out, and I went to Roxie's. If you won't show me a good time," she continued, "I have options. And I don't even remember his name." Roxie's, of course, is a dark and intimate lounge and one of the few that caters to big women and the men and women who prefer a full-figured physique.

I sat there in shock, stunned partly by my wife's beautiful, abundant body, and partly by what she was suggesting she'd been up to.

She untangle the wadded panties from her bra. "Wanna see how much of a good time?" she asked. She leaned toward me, and the scent of perfume grew stronger. By the light of the reading lamp, she untangled her panties and spread the crotch open for me. I could see that the gusset was still wet despite having been stuffed into her purse. "See? Why don't you smell how much of a good time I had," she said, and held the crotch of her damp panties to my nose. I could smell the familiar odour of her arousal, tangy and sweet. The scent, and taste, of her arousal has always been a huge trigger for me. In the right circumstances, it can get me hard in a moment, and tonight was no different.

She stood back up and shrugged off her jacket. Her body was bathed in the warm, golden lamplight and I noticed a slight sheen of perspiration on her skin. She pulled her crop top down, revealing a bare breast. "He touched me here," she said, without warning, stroking the side of her breast. "And here," she said, pointing to her nipple. She shrugged out of her crop top. "He stroked me here," she said, caressing her plump arms, "and here," tracing circles around the part of her belly not covered by her miniskirt. "He really liked my fat tummy," she said, pulling her skirt over her hips until it fell to her ankles. She was now completely nude.

"Do you want to know where he licked me?" she asked, in the same oddly soft and sweet tone she'd used when she hung up on me at the office. She lifted up her tummy and rubbed what is honestly one of my most favourite parts of her body, the slightly moist underside of her generous belly where it nestles against her bare mons and upper thighs. "He really liked that," she said.

Despite her betrayal, my erection was straining against my pants. I was horrified yet aroused by her description of her evening and her lover's touches. As if the pungent, warm smell of her panties and the sight of her sumptuous body weren't enough, she was holding the softest part of herself for me to see, and telling me that another man had touched her -- and licked her! -- in one of her most intimate places.

"I saw that you liked smelling my panties. Do you want to see where else he touched and licked me?" She began to put a foot up on the arm of my chair but stopped. "I have a better idea," she said coyly. "I know what you secretly like; I've seen you watching me." She turned around and slowly bent over. I could see her smooth, freshly-waxed pussy lips below her glorious ass and my cock throbbed in my pants. "He licked me there," she said. "Can you see? I'll bet you can't." She reached behind to pull her cheeks apart. "In fact, I'm going to give you an even better view, if you'd like." She was right, I couldn't see much, but I could see that her pussy was glistening and wet, and I could see that the lips around the opening of her vagina were slightly reddened, and slightly gaped open, the way her pussy sometimes looks after we fuck.

"You can hardly blame me," she said, her voice rising back to anger. "Our sex life is almost non-existent, and there's only so many times I can get myself off in the toilet at work and only so much satisfaction I can get from my toys at home. I'm bored," she said, "and then you fuck off on our anniversary!"

"Do you really want a better view?" she asked again in her sweet voice. It came across almost as a threat. But at this point, whether she was still in a rage or not, I was transfixed.

"Do you?" she demanded. "Well, do you?"

"Yes," I answered, feeling as if someone else was saying the word. "Please." My mouth was dry. I was extraordinarily aroused.

"Lie down then, like a good boy, right there on the carpet."

She stepped back and I stood up, and made to touch the soft plumpness of her fat belly. She slapped my hand away. "No touching. Touching from him, yes, but not from you. Lie down," she directed. I did as she asked and lay down on the floor.

She put one foot on either side of my head, and slowly began to squat over my face. I could see the sexy roll of her tummy and the slight discolouration of her inner thighs and pussy lips where they rub together, and as she continued to move her pussy toward my face, I could see that I was right about the gaping of her pussy lips. It wasn't just her lips but her vagina that was spread and gaping; she did look like she'd just been fucked. As she grew closer, the musky scent of her beautiful pussy grew stronger and her pussy spread more and more open. I could see how wet she was, almost creamy. The smell was intoxicating. Her big clit was engorged as well, but whether that was as a result of having been laid or how she was feeling now, I couldn't tell. "How about that?" she asked, when her pussy was just a few inches from my face. "Can you tell I had a good time? Can you tell that I've been used? I'll bet you can't."

"Stick out your tongue as far as you can," she told me, "but don't move or that'll be that." I complied, and she carefully lowered herself onto the tip of my tongue, feeling for my tongue with her lips and avoiding her clit. Having got her pussy in the right place, she lowered herself onto my face with my tongue penetrating deeply into her vaginal canal. "How do you like it now?" she asked. I actually liked it quite a lot; one of my favourite things is when we sixty-nine with her on top, and I love feeling her weight and tummy on me when she rides my cock. I could feel her lips resting against the side of my mouth and my beard getting damp from her wetness as she pushed herself onto me. I was hard as a rock and dying for more of her pussy.

"Does it taste any different?" she demanded. I couldn't talk with her pussy pressed into my face. She lifted up a few inches and repeated her question. After I caught my breath, I answered "a little, I suppose, maybe a little bit saltier."

"Let me show you why," she said. She lifted up a few inches more, and the light from the lamp gave me an incredible, close-up view of her lips and her swollen clit, and deep into her gaping vagina. As I watched, she began to squeeze her muscles, and I could see the walls of her vagina contracting, relaxing and contracting. "I let him come in me. No condom," she announced. As I watched, a thick, milky-white fluid began to ooze from deep inside her plump, sexy pussy. "That's his come," she said proudly. "When he came I could feel it hitting the back of my cunt and filling me. He came a lot more than you do," she said. "A lot more."

She stood up, turned around to confirm that I was aroused and hard, and said "that's it. There you go. Now you know how I spent our anniversary. In fact, you've also seen how I spent our anniversary, haven't you?" As she said these words, I watched as a small trickle of come dripped from between her still-gaped pussy lips and fell onto my cheek. "I'm going to go have a piss and clean myself up," she said, "and you can help with both if you want."

And now this is how we spend all of our anniversaries.