My Way to Cope
A Short Story by HungryKiss
I
Life was a rough ol' bastard.
Then I met John.
He was about twenty-four, six foot three, blonde-haired, slim, square-jawed, and barrel-chested with thick biceps and veiny arms covered in tattoos. And that attitude. God damn. He walked into the room and commanded it without parting his lips. He had an icy stare that scared the shit out of the guys who needed to hide behind gangster shit to look tough. He didn't take an ounce of their shit or mine as I resisted him, showing my loyalty to terrible men who didn't deserve it. On the outside, I was nasty, but secretly, I was fantasizing about the tall, strong, soldier who saw something in me that no one else did, especially not me.
He told me I was too good to be wasted by drug dealers and gangbangers. He was right, but I didn't know it. I knew I was sexy, beautiful even, but years of abuse at home told me I was worthless. His obsession with me made no sense, but I couldn't help but enjoy it.
At night, when my fingers found my wet pussy, it was John I was fantasizing about.
He told my boyfriend, Jared, that I didn't belong to him anymore. He said I was put on this Earth for him, and he for me. He sounded crazy, but romantic too.
They came at him, but he was a marine fresh from the war. Two armed guys from the crew went to visit John and they never came back. That night, Jared woke up with a Glock stuffed in his mouth. John laid out the terms, and Jared wisely accepted.
I was done resisting. I gave myself to this beautiful, powerful man who got me clean and far away from my crazy, drunken mother and the men who made me a plaything for their amusement and satisfaction.
It was a whirlwind romance, but it was simple as pie. He thought I was the most beautiful girl he ever saw, I thought he was the sexiest man I ever saw, and we loved every moment we spent with each other.
We were quickly married. It was a small ceremony. He had no family either, so it was just his few friends from service and their wives who welcomed me like kin, God bless them.
John refused to fuck me until we were married. He was old-fashioned. It drove me damn near insane, but that night it was all worth the wait. He stood there, naked, his hard cock standing tall and strong as he stared at me in my wedding dress. I shivered with excitement as he slowly walked over. I was unbuttoning the back of my gown when he took my hands and placed them on his turgid dick. He took over the unbuttoning, and he took his time. My pussy was dripping in anticipation. God, I was never so turned on. The gown fell and I stood in the lingerie I was wearing beneath it: a white lace, open-crotched teddy with garters and stockings. I felt so sexy in it, and I knew he had a thing for lingerie. When we fooled around, he always treated me gently, but for our first fucking, he did
not
, and I was delighted!
He pushed me onto the bed flat on my back and rubbed his hot, hard cock on my vulva, making my clit tingle. Normally, I'd have been down for foreplay, but that night I didn't need it. I practically creamed from the cunt-rubbing.
My pussy ached for him. It was like a deep itch I needed him to scratch. My vagina felt like it was gaping open just behind the lips. I needed to feel that delicious pressure, that presence inside me. I almost cried I wanted it so badly. I begged him not to make me wait. I begged him to fuck me.
He stared at my vagina, framed by the white lace, and sighed. He looked like he might cry.
"Gat dang, baby. What a perfect, little, pink pussy. Lord, it is so beautiful. It's the most beautiful pussy I've ever seen."
I could have died right there. That was an important compliment for me. From that day on, I took a lot of pride in my perfect, little, pink pussy.
"Fuck me now, John.
Now
!" I begged.
When his manhood finally slid into me, I could feel his heartbeat thumping through it. Its soft, luxuriant head parted my sopping-wet labia and stretched my vagina so satisfyingly that my legs began to quiver. He started nice and slow, feeding me bit-by-bit until he was completely inside me. He groaned and I couldn't help but giggle with joy. I finally got to make him feel good this way. Handies and blowjobs just weren't the same. I had dreamed of that pleasure for weeks. Then, he got to work.
He hoisted my legs up and wide open, lifting my ass off the bed. He slid a pillow under it, then plunged his dick deep into me. It went in so deep that his velvety soft head pressed into my cervix, dabbing it gently, like a makeup sponge on a cheek or a brush on a canvas of watercolors.
It was a beautiful moment, but I have to laugh because I was definitely less than dainty.
"Oh, fuck...ohfuckohfuckofuckofuck...OH FUCK! Ungh! YYYYEEEESSSSS!"
I came. I came so fucking hard I ruined the pillow.
Some of the other wives told me they hated their cervixes getting touched. Whenever they got poked by a doctor, a toy, or a dick, it left them irritated. Hell, Mary told us it made her want to vomit. I could
not
relate to that. For me, it was the height of pleasure to get a deep dicking, tickled by a tender cockhead gently kissing my cervix.
I gasped for breath and moaned from the depths of my soul. In moments, another orgasm, this one not as strong as the first, but somehow more enjoyable. My pussy squeezing his shaft was more than he could take. With a roaring groan, my big, strong husband's cock jerked up and down inside me, filling me with his hot, sticky man milk—another sensation I could never get enough of.
I was sure I was pregnant, but no. After trying for years, we figured it just wasn't meant to be. At least we never once had to use protection. As it turned out, infertility was probably for the best because a month after our tenth anniversary, the fairytale came crashing down hard.
II
When the doctor said cancer, I nearly fainted. My big, strong man had cancer. He sat there stoically while I made a scene. I screamed at the doctor. I bawled my eyes out. John just nodded.
It was far along. It was too far along. They offered procedure after procedure as glimmers of hope, but in the end, admitted they were all the longest of long shots. Hospice was recommended, and John shook his head.
"If I gotta go, I'm going with my boots on. No chemo, but no hospice either."
I wanted him to fight. I wanted him to try everything. John knew better though. As a kid, he watched his mother try everything when she was diagnosed, and all it did was make her last months on Earth a misery.
John could no longer do his job, so we cashed out our savings and traveled across our beautiful country as much as we could. We made love on beaches and shared a sleeping bag in the mountains. He was worried about the money, but I didn't care. If this was going to be my last few months with him, they were going to be incredible. I owed him that and a load more.
At last, the day came when John could no longer make love to me. It broke his heart. I assured him I didn't care, but he cared. It shattered him. And shit, he knew me too well. I missed it so much it gave me heartache. We held each other and kissed each other, and he'd still slap my ass or squeeze my tit to remind me those were his, but when it came to sex, we steered clear of the subject.
Plagued by pains that killed his appetite for both food and life, he slowed down dramatically. He lost his will to exercise, which he always loved. Everything hurt him. Those beloved biceps withered and he could no longer carry himself with strength and confidence. I was crushing.
We hired live-in help, a thick and burly Jamaican nurse named Hyacinth. She was strong as an ox, which was very needed. Even reduced, John was a big man. She was kind and sharp. She helped me figure out the finances that John always took care of, and I realized that we were just about broke. In days, we wouldn't be able to afford Hyacinth or his insurance for pain meds.
I needed work, but I barely got through high school, so college wasn't even a thought. Finding a good-paying job quickly was not going to happen. Fuck work, I needed money, a lot of it, and I needed it fast.
I was in my late twenties, but never having kids and adopting John's workout regimen, I remained strong, slim, tight, and perky. I knew men would pay to see my body. The good Lord blessed me, and it was time to cash in those chips.
The manager of The Wiggle Room—a gray, chubby ol' flirt named Carl, half ugly and half cute—wore a white cowboy hat he removed like a gentleman. Champing at a thick cigar, he looked me over approvingly.
"I say, Sugar, you might just be the best-looking gal who ever walked through them doors."
"Aw, now, I bet you say that to all the gals," I smirked playfully.
"True," he smiled, "But this time I mean it!"
I smiled girlishly. Heck, I think he did.
"Alright, now," he commanded, sitting by the stage. "Peel."
I didn't know what he meant until he pointed at the pole on the stage behind me and wiggled his pointer finger, adding, "C'mon, sugar. Let's see the goods."
I always loved to dance. I had a natural drive to move to music, and people said I was good, but I only ever did it for fun. Now, I would do it for profit.
The DJ was off, but there was music playing over the loudspeaker, some new rap song at the time, but it had a good beat. I girated, I grinded, I spun and I swung around that pole like a pro. Shit, I impressed myself!
I prayed Carl wasn't a total scumbag as I arched my back and slowly slid my shorts down. My ass cheeks popped out like two scoops of peach sherbert. The shorts fell to my ankles and I stepped one foot out, using the other to kick them over to the manager and they landed on his big belly. He laughed.
In my black thong, I strutted around the stage, swishing my hips, grabbing the pole, and swinging around it, lifting my leg high up to flash my barely clothed pussy at my singular audience. I was sure to wear my heels, which made my legs and ass look inhumanly good.
