Billy's Emancipation

I had come to feel pretty emasculated.

Isobel hopped off my lap. She plucked two tissues from the box on the nightstand and dabbled them between her thighs as she walked toward the bathroom, buck naked. I watched as she flicked them into the dustbin, thinking I knew how those damp, discarded tissues felt as I lay in bed, shuffling up the headboard into a sitting position. No foreplay, no aftercare. That woman had done the impossible: make sex feel sterile.

'Why can't I ever be on top?' I said, restraining the whiny tone in my voice. I was aware of it, and I hated it, but I couldn't help it. 'I've come to feel like some sex toy. My only use is getting you off, so you'll fall asleep more easily.'

'Again?' she said from the bathroom. 'I'm growing tired of this discussion. You're a guy; you should be happy having come, shouldn't you?'

I heard the buzz of her electric toothbrush, gurgling, spitting. Her sitting down on the toilet and peeing. I grabbed a tissue myself, cleaned up, and adjusted my boxers. I didn't know what to do. I listened as she flushed, washed her hands with two splats of soap, and walked back toward our bed. The bump of her heels against the hardwood floor made her breasts jump a notch with every step--more pronounced ever since they'd started sagging somewhat. When I averted my eyes from her pink nipples, I noticed that she was flashing me a satisfied smile.

It was a beautiful smile, displaying her small, porcelain white teeth and the soft but pronounced dimples on her rosy cheeks. I hated how much I loved it, well aware of the slight smugness beneath the surface. I smiled back and pulled up the blanket after she'd settled down.

She turned off the nightlight on her side of the room. 'Good night,' she said, leaning in. She gave me a peck on the cheek. 'And you're more than just a sex toy, dummy. You're my husband. You don't need to be some hyper-masculine, though, and scruffy man, nor the man of the house or the breadwinner. I like having you at home...and you're a better cook than me.'

I didn't attempt to score with some riposte. I'd tried that often enough, and it had gotten me exactly nowhere. Instead, I turned off the light on my side, squeezed her moisturised hand, and pursued the debate within the safety of my mind.

She'd changed, was my first thought. She'd changed, and I had adapted. She'd become the metaphorical man of the house. I'd been happy at first--moving had taken it out of her. A new job with new responsibilities in a new area. She'd only managed to adjust to her new position by adapting herself. She'd become dominant in the workplace, and that dominance slowly but surely carried over into our private lives. That dominance had gotten her over her fears of inadequacy, over her fretting and insomnia.

And transferred those pains to me in the process. I'd agreed to quit my job and move, thinking I'd land something new over here. I'd agreed to discard that idea, turning into a childless stay-at-home dad over here. I'd agreed to let her change me over here. Gradually. Piece by piece. Till I had neither a job nor a purpose, nor any say over our finances or any say between our sheets.

I burrowed a hand underneath the pillow, and the cool pocket helped my calm. I was getting worked up. A few regulated breaths eased those feelings, and I closed my eyes, laying on my side. There wasn't a smidge of tiredness in my head. She'd transferred the insomnia, after all.

Her snoring didn't help, either.

I brushed off the blanket and trundled into the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. The sleeping pills--originally bought by and for Isobel--were in the drawer next to the sink. I popped one out of the packaging and washed it down with a glass of water.

As I headed back up toward the bedroom, my winding-down mind continued to churn. Lamenting wasn't of any use; whining was even more emasculating.

Action was needed.

The first attempt failed miserably.

Isobel snatched the white shirt from my grasp and replaced it with a cornflower blue one. She said, 'This one's better; it matches your eyes and doesn't look as...sterile.'

Well, I thought, you'd be the expert when it comes to all things sterile. I accepted the shirt, submitted a tie for peer review, and clasped my black leather belt. 'How long's this thing going to be?' I said, wounding the tie around my neck after it had received a slightly hesitant nod of approval. 'Will we be back before midnight?'

'Sure,' she answered. 'This is just some small company function. It won't take long at all; we'll be back before dinner.'

That was a lie, I thought in retrospect as I sat on the toilet, at home, lid down. My stomach was stuffed with quiche, and my disposition altered with wine. I held one of Isobel's slips, a lingerie piece, fluff and lace and nothing else.

Can't even pick my own outfit, I thought. My grasp was wrapped around my cock, gently moving up and down. A bead of precum glistened on the tip. Can't even...

I sighed, fastening the pace. The foreskin caught the precum and spread it across the head. My breathing was strained and rapid, and it came out through clenched teeth. Whatever sort of sensation I hoped to achieve by rubbing one out to an old piece of underwear--not expensive and extravagant enough for the Breadwinning Business Wife anymore--I didn't receive it.

Still, it managed to bring back memories. Pre-move memories. Memories in which I starred as the man. Memories of her laying in bed, waiting for me after work on a Friday afternoon.

'Hope you're not too tired,' she'd say. 'As mean as it may sound, I love that you're working a forty-hour week while I'm on thirty-eight and a half. Makes it easy to surprise you here and there.'

A smirk graces her lips, and she tosses her head to beckon me over, blonde locks cascading down her back.

'I'm not tired at all,' I drawl, stepping closer. I halt at the edge of the bed and watch as her lithe fingers unbuckle my belt, draw down the zipper, and pull out my cock. She starts to stroke. My eyes start taking in the sight, slowly, properly--piece by piece.

My gaze wanders down her delicate neck, spotting her b-cup rack, slightly squished together as she lies half on her side, half propped up on an arm to reach my hip. Her midriff's almost hidden due to her pose, and I unwittingly grab a handful of hair, tugging gently, watching as she adjusts accordingly and exposes more of her supple stomach, tongue still smacking against my shaft.

She smiles, and I reciprocate.

Drool is pooling at the corners of her mouth, foaming each time her head thrusts down my shaft. I don't interfere, don't insert myself with a push of the hand on the back of her head--she's taking it all in, anyway. Eagerly. Holding eye contact. Smirking here and there, lapping up the spit that was running down her chin after she'd cupped it in her palm.

I stop her after a minute, feeling myself coming close to a climax. She's a natural. While I step out of my pants (which had fallen down to my ankles), she wriggles her ass and kicks her legs, stripping off the laced panties. The bra's lying in the corner of the room.

She slathers her pussy with the drool she'd built up and lays down on her back. I climb onto the bed, discarding my shirt. Before I can lower my head in between her thighs, she clasps my cheeks and guides me back up.

'No,' she whispers, the words carried on a hot, damp breath. 'Just fuck me.'

I do as she says, leaning in for a kiss as I lower my body onto hers, arms beside her head and the warmth of her labia cradling the tip of my cock. A subtle moan escapes her lips as I push deeper, digging in, entering her gently but firmly. Her steaming breath tickles my ear.

I pull out, waiting--watching her watching me with bated breath--before plunging back down, repeating the motion, adhering to the rhythm, and gradually descending into a harder, faster staccato.

Her moans intensify, flaring up each time I plough down. They grow loud, coarse, coming from the throat, filling up the entire room, interspersed with the creaking of the bed's wooden frame and her intermittent cries for more. Her chest heaves up and down, and I steady myself on my left arm, cupping one of her breasts with my right, squeezing it softly, feeling her hard nipple rub against my palm--

It knocked on the bathroom door. 'Hon? Are you all right in there?' Isobel asked, listening for a second before continuing: 'I'd like to brush my teeth. Are you going to be much longer?'

Her voice mixed with the images in my head, and I blew a load into the scrounged-up slip. My breathing calmed. I looked at the white lace, then at my cock and the light imprints of my fingers around the shaft--how hard was I grasping?--before speaking up.

'I'm almost done,' I said, getting up from the toilet seat. I turned the knob on the tap and cleaned the slip as best I could before dumping it into the laundry basket. 'Just give me five more minutes.'

'Fine.' Receding footsteps.

Guess that won't make me feel any more like a man, either, I thought. It makes me feel like a fifteen-year-old jerking off in his parent's bathroom instead. I grabbed my toothbrush and unwound the cap of the toothpaste. There weren't many more ideas floating in my head, none that wouldn't have led to a huge discussion, at least. None that I might've reliably recovered from.

I spit, gurgled mouthwash, and cleared the bathroom for Isobel to use. It was late, and she was in and out in the span of two minutes. We both settled into bed. No sex that night. She fell asleep in an instant, still worn down from the function. I remained awake, getting ready for the nightly trip to the kitchen.

I stopped in the doorway, looking back. Then, it hit me. I wasn't ever after some old-fashioned domestic bliss. I wasn't ever truly mad that I'd quit my job and moved or that I'd started doing the chores around the house instead of creating nonsensical Excel spreadsheets at work. I was mad that I'd been made into the metaphorical woman of the relationship. In bed. Between the sheets. Where it counted.

I looked at Isobel's sleeping body, tucked into bed and snoring softly. Her head rested on a beige pillow. Her back was turned to me, allowing me only to glimpse the blonde locks curling around her head.

A new idea popped into my head. An idea that might just cure me of my emasculation.

...but not tonight.

The following day, the sleeping pills went down easily. Isobel didn't even notice their bitter taste, though the tangy orange juice did a good job of covering it up. We finished dinner, I prepared myself to reject her sexual advances and...she didn't propose any--she was too tired.

She stifled a yawn and said, 'I'm going to bed. Must've been work, tough day today. I'm beat. Don't shake the bed when you get in.' Her eyes were half-lidded, and the words came out utterly monotonous. She _was_ beat. 'Goodnight, hon.'

I averted my eyes from the television and said, 'Goodnight!' as I watched her climb the stairs. She held on to the railing firmly. She'd be out like a light in fifteen minutes, tops. I'd still be watching the game by then, probably even fifteen minutes more after that.

Give the meds some time to work, I thought.

I turned off the television (already running on low volume) and walked toward the kitchen. My hand was gripping the drawer with the pills before I even realised that this wasn't just any other night.

That I wouldn't be needing those pills tonight.

Chasing away the thoughts running through my mind, I filled half a glass of water, downed it, and went upstairs. The bedroom door was ajar, and I could peek at Isobel's curvaceous body lying motionlessly on her side of the mattress, sprawled out on her back. The nightlight was turned on. Her snoring--a tad more voluminous than usual--removed the vague, hesitant apprehension I'd felt after stepping into the room. I stopped walking on tiptoes, closed the door behind me, and began undressing.

Most nights, she'd sleep stark naked. This time, she must not have gotten that far: her left hand cradled the right cup of her bra; the left cup was turned over like a dog's ear, exposing a somewhat firm breast and a nipple. One of the bra's straps still clung to her right shoulder. _Unhooked at least_, I thought. She'd gotten the jeans halfway down her legs. Not so much luck with the slip or the socks.

The thoughts started back up when I neared the bed, eyeing her intently. Was this a good idea? What was I even hoping to achieve? _To feel in control,_ I thought. _To feel like the one who's wearing the pants._ _Figuratively_, I added, looking down at my pants-less legs and noticing that I was already at half-mast.

I climbed onto the bed and watched her body shift as the mattress moved. She was out of it. Her listless left arm touched my bent knee as I stooped over her. It felt different, strange. I'd seen her naked a thousand times, sleeping a thousand times, and both combined a million times, but I'd never felt like a sexual deviant ogling his prey.

She'd never been this up for grabs, though.

Gently, I lifted her right shoulder and fiddled the bra's strap down her arm. When I pulled on it, the right cup slid out from underneath the hand, and I tossed the whole thing over my shoulder. I clasped her hand and moved it aside. Now entirely bare-chested, her nude breasts moved up and down as she breathed languidly. I stooped lower to massage them while simultaneously nuzzling her neck, smelling the rosy scent of her expiring perfume. Her body was hot, and I shared in its heat. Her nipples were growing hard, slowly. I could barely restrain myself from kissing her.

But I didn't want to wake her.

For a distraction, I began moving downwards. I wasn't sure how far I wanted to go. I traced the slight furrow of her midriff with my left hand, gracing the fabric of her slip, my hand rising with her pubic mound, and then descending, pressing against her underwear, sliding along her slit as the warmth between her thighs cradled my hand.

Her body seemed to respond. I continued stroking the fabric of her slip as she began to stir, her breathing quickening, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. My rock-hard cock hovered above her soft stomach. I didn't know what I was waiting for. I was hesitant. Still. Then, a wet spot bloomed on her slip.

My fingers moved more heavily, massaging her pussy in a circular pattern. Without thinking, I removed them for a second, dabbed them against the tip of my cock, scooped up a drip of pre-cum, and went back to massaging, rubbing it in. I enjoyed it. I didn't know what she'd think, but it didn't matter. She'd easily let me creampie her if she were awake--and that was exactly it. She'd _let me_. Now, _it didn't matter. She didn't have a say._

Her mouth opened, and soft moans flittered out. I stopped moving briefly, afraid she'd woken up, and then I decided to go all in. I stopped stroking her pussy and kneading her breasts. I grabbed the hem of her slip by the sides and pushed it down. It snagged between her ass and the mattress. With one hand, I lifted her left hip, pulled it down along her buttocks, and then repeated it on the right side. I moved it down her thighs until it was nestled inside the jeans around her knees.

Seeing her exposed, shaven pussy--another aspect of the Confident Wife--I wanted to dive right in. Before I even knew it, my hands were underneath her back, trying to turn her on her side so that I could spoon up to her, fuck her without any hassle, without having to work around the jeans.

But I thought better of it, letting her lie on her stomach a while longer.

Her pussy was soaked already, yet I wanted to remove any and all friction. I spit into my hand, brought it near my cock, then stopped. Instead of using my own (and having grown zealous), I crawled up the bed until my cock was near her mouth. With two prodding fingers, I parted her plump lips--brick red from smudged chapstick. Her teeth were in the way, but the state of absolute relaxation of her muscles turned that into a non-issue. Her jaw moved easily, and I moved eagerly.

I lowered my hips toward her face--towering above her while holding onto the headboard for support--and watched as the tip of my cock entered her mouth, the fingers of one hand still acting as a vice, holding it open. Aware that she should preferably remain asleep (somewhere in the back of my mind), I moved slowly and smoothly, enjoying the texture of her tongue and the top of her mouth against my cock, twirling it around, nudging her cheeks.

After a short scare of fluttering eyelids, I decided that my cock had been made wet enough and revelled in the knowledge that I was about to fuck my unwitting wife after she herself had so graciously helped me out with her mouth. I shimmied down on the bed, turning onto my side and adopting the position of the big spoon.

Her back was against me, and I inserted an arm between her legs, lifting one up and groping around, adjusting my position as the shaft of my cock rubbed against her pussy. I prod longer than I needed to, moving around clumsily, grabbing her breasts and relishing the moment. Her breathing was somewhat rapid but regular. I kissed her neck.

Then I entered her, first the tip, slowly and steadily. Then the shaft, inch by inch. It went in easily, sliding in all the way up to the base. I couldn't purge the thought that she enjoyed this. How hard her nipples were. How wet her pussy had gotten. How eagerly she accepted my cock. I slid it back out, in, and out, putting her leg on top of mine for easier access, moving in a soft and rhythmic manner.

With the hand that wasn't fondling her chest, I started rubbing her clit. Keenly aware of her body's reactions. I noticed her breathing continuing to fasten, gaining pace. Just like me. Soft moans escaped her lips. I dabbled the fingers stroking her clit--utterly damp--against her lips, lodging them into her mouth, wondering whether she'd wake up tomorrow tasting herself.

My hand moved back south. I increased my tempo again. My hips clapped against her ass with each thrust, and I listened to the low thumping sounds, repressing the thought that I'd actually like her to wake up--to see her reaction, her speechlessness. Her frustration, anger. Embarrassment? Lust, maybe.

Her waking mind might rebel, I thought, but her sleeping body likes it.

I upped my pace. Part of me wanted to risk it, to roll the dice against the meds, to not only gauge but witness her reaction. The other part yearned her to remain asleep. Let her body decide, and her body had spoken. Loudly, clearly. She moaned. She was wetter than she'd been in months (perhaps because this fuck had already lasted longer than it had in months). Her body had grown hot enough to fight a fever.

Her body acted against her. She may not have enjoyed this much, but her body liked getting fucked, being dominated and getting used the way it was supposed to be used.

And that thought gave me the rest.

I squeezed one of her breasts as I drove my hips against her cheeks, burrowing my cock deep inside her pussy, feeling it twitch and throb. It tensed, spurting semen into her willing womb. My entire body pressed against her. She was almost lying on her stomach, and I thought that she'd have to wake up now, no way she'd stay asleep, no way she'd not open her eyes right now.

But she didn't move, didn't stir. A few more subtle moans left her throat, and she slumped onto her stomach when I pulled out. I retreated, shimmied back, removed her leg from mine, bent down and watched my cum dripping out of her pussy. Before it could stain the bedsheets, I plucked a tissue from the box on the nightstand and, after a moment's hesitation, wiped it away.

My breathing calmed. Her's as well.

I thought about pulling her slip back up or pulling it down all the way, along with the jeans. In the end, I did neither. I went to the toilet, went back to bed, pulled up the blanket, and fell asleep instantly.