The Climb

I know I'm hurting her.

I was following the handbook of my father: make her dependent on me, crave my attention and she'll beg, eventually. That's what I wanted. Her on her knees, looking up at me with a frown and big sad eyes, pleading for my attention, and I'll give it to her. But only to the point of my fulfillment. Hers can wait.

She came into our relationship adamant she didn't want kids and I was fine with it. I thought I didn't either, so we agreed. But I've changed my mind and I want her to as well. If she gives me a kid, I'll fucking worship her when I come home.

But first, I have to break her. I have to make her desperate. Every time I came home, she's smiled and greeted me with a hug, and it killed me to be cold to her. But I had to stay strong. I told her the neighbors could see, and after a while she stopped waiting for me outside and waited inside instead.

I put an end to that, as well. Told her she was clingy and I needed my space to unwind after getting home. That's about when she stopped smiling every day. I figured it wouldn't be long until she caved and begged, but she hasn't. It's been years and my resolve is wearing down as she gets sadder and more distant.

Sabotaging therapy was hard, but necessary. He was building her up to ask for what she needed and I only wanted her thinking about what I wanted. I wanted her to beg me to fuck her.

Not to make love, but to fuck. Raw and primal with my hand on her throat and her body beneath mine, receptive to me without a condom or contraceptives in place. I wanted to own her, and then I could love her the way she needed me to.

At least, that had been the plan.

A few months ago, after grabbing my dinner and retreating to my den to eat and work on the erotica I'd been writing about breaking my wife's independence, I was researching some imagery and stumbled across a still image of a woman in a bath. She was smiling, biting her lower lip, and her cheeks were flushed.

But it wasn't just any woman. It was my wife.

I almost confronted her that night, but I didn't. I searched and found the website eventually. I watched for hours and confirmed she had never revealed herself. She was always under a cover of bubbles. She hid herself well.

Then, she was live one night, and on our bed. Her hair was wet and she was wrapped in a towel. She was about to cross a line, and I had pushed her to it.

I watched. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands covered her face, and she spoke softly, "I don't think I can do this, guys. My husband is just downstairs. I love him. It's one thing being hidden in the bath, it's another to be very exposed."

God, I loved her voice. Tender and sweet, just like her. The men in the chat encouraged her to take the towel off. I quickly paid the fee for a private moment with her. She spoke to me directly, her green eyes focused on her camera, and she smiled like she used to smile at me.

"I'll refund your money. I don't think I can do this privately either."

I typed, "He probably knows what you're doing."

She frowned and looked toward our bedroom door. "I wish. At least then he might touch me."

The words stung, but they weren't untrue. "You want to be touched? Meet me somewhere."

She laughed and shook her head. "By him. Only by him."

The guilt twisted my stomach. All of these men would fuck her in a heartbeat. Give her exactly what she wanted, and she said no, even privately. "Meet me upstairs, then, Syl. and keep the camera going. I'm your neighbor, not your husband, understand?"

Her green eyes widened, but she nodded. "Ditch the towel," I added. The private chat faded away, and she complied.

No condom. I wanted to give them a little hope that they could have her, too. So, I won't be me. I'll be a bully, taking her while her measly little husband is downstairs neglecting her.

She's fully mine, now, and her popularity is about to skyrocket.