Eventually Tim found out about my liaison with my husband and pitched a fit. He was so enraged, in fact, that his true colors started to come out. He anally raped me that night, and repeated the act in the subsequent weeks. I've always hated and feared anal sex, refused to do it with Bill. It was one of the many, many things I denied him as a means of exerting power in our relationship. And then Bill took me anally, hoping to be my first, and I had to tell him. He's only done it a few times, now, and I have lost my fear of the act, now. But not my hatred. It feels degrading and abusive when he does it. But I let him do it anyway. Sometimes that's the only way I can get him to touch me.
Things came to a head around the holidays. Tim kept getting arrested for stupid stuff, the money was running out quickly, and Bill started dating again -- a fact that shocked me to my core. I knew he loved me, and I hadn't seen him so much as look at another woman since before we were married. Watching him flirt so shamelessly with a bunch of socialites at the local country club was more painful than I thought it could be. Knowing that he had fucked at least one of them that night was a dagger in my heart. I didn't think I was particularly jealous, but when I overheard a couple of bitches talking about him like he was a piece of meat in the ladies restroom, I nearly cried.
Things with Tim got worse. His art shows failed miserably. He became more abusive. He wasn't exactly a hit with my parents, who loved Bill like a son. In fact, with every passing day I knew that I had made a grave mistake, one I would pay for for the rest of my life if I stayed with him. But I had no choice. The baby in my belly was a burned bridge to the world I'd had. No way left to go but forward. The anal rapes continued, the petty bickering, the abuse . . . all the time I was trying to gain back some measure of dignity by fulfilling my promised oral duties to my husband. Compared to what I was getting at home, my "reluctant" blowjobs started being the one predictable highlight to my day. And when he fucked me, or had other sex with me, it was incredible. Tim? He was a child in comparison.
I suck now in earnest, knowing that he will awaken soon. I'm ready for it, ready to cede control of the experience back to my husband. He stirs and moans again as the friction builds in his shaft. I shamelessly flutter my tongue over his glans to enhance the effect, ensuring a tumble into consciousness. Just to make certain, I snake my hand into his pajamas and find his testicles. He loves having his balls played with.
Finally, Tim cracked under the pressure. He hit Bill at work and got fired and arrested again. Then he burned down his own family's farmhouse (where we had been staying rent free) and took off to parts unknown, abandoning me and our child to the cruel whim of fortune. I didn't know where else to turn -- I asked my sister for advice. I asked my priest. Both told me the same thing: go back to Bill. Beg him to forgive you. Do whatever it took to get a second chance.
He's awake, now, I can feel it. He hasn't taken control yet, but he's considering the matter as I make long slow strokes in and out of my mouth. He is thinking about grabbing my head and face-fucking me -- he enjoys that -- but he also enjoys feeling me work for his seed, using every tool I've learned to coax it out of his balls.
The terms were harsh: I could come back and live at what used to be "our" house. I would live in the unfinished section that he had built while we were apart -- a maid's quarters. He would pay for my upkeep in a minimalist fashion through the end of the pregnancy. He would keep me fed, clothed, housed. The priest lined up a nice family to adopt my bastard -- they would pay the medical expenses. After the birth, I was to leave, and the divorce would proceed. And I could not deny him sexually, in any way. He was free to see other women. I was not free to see other men. I was to be treated like a live-in maid and sex object. And I gratefully agreed to the abuse for the opportunity.
You see, in all the madness about Tim, I re-discovered that I loved Bill -- smart, funny, bean-counter Bill. And while I wanted him to take me back as his wife desperately, I knew that couldn't happen, not with my bastard around. So I had to give up my baby and still convince Bill that he didn't want to get a divorce. Giving up the baby was the hardest decision I've ever made in my life, but I know he will be going to a good and loving home. A home like I could have had for him, had I not strayed. A home like I could perhaps salvage from the ruins of my marriage to Bill.
And if that meant sucking his cock every morning and swallowing his load without complaint, well, that seemed like a small enough price to pay.
I've always known Bill was passionate about fellatio, of course. It's one of the things he says attracted him to me, my willingness to go down on him. But what had once been an exciting bit of foreplay or a sensual indulgence or a demonstrable outpouring of my love and affection had eventually become little more than another household chore, a wifely duty to perform. I began to resent it, and my performances on my knees got further and further apart. I became reluctant to do it at all, eventually, because of what it implied to me: Bill's domination in our marriage. It was a tangible symbol of our inequality. He made all the money, I "kept up" the home (with the help of a maid service and a gardener) and I had honestly felt that when I gave him head, it was because it was expected of me. So I had stopped.
It took my affair and pregnancy -- and the bean jar -- for me to realize just how passionate he was about it. I had now sucked off my husband more in the last six months than our first years as newlyweds. I had started out doing it reluctantly -- hell, it was one step away from sexual assault. But then with repetition and practice I began to enjoy it again, even when it was obviously just a physical release for him. Now I knew that it was, perhaps, the one key I had to where we had been, once. Begging a man for forgiveness is easier when you're already on your knees.
And that was my plan. I knew he still had a gut-full of anger and revenge planned for me. He has told me as much, warned me that I could expect horrifying abuses. But I would endure it, all the humiliations and mind-fucks he could throw at me, for the chance to be his wife again. I cheated. I erred. I sinned. And if the penance I am given includes his most perverted sexual fantasies, then I shall endure all of them for the slimmest opportunity to share his life again.
And that starts with the bean jar. One bean per blowjob, and I still owed him about fifty. After all I have put the man through, the least I can do -- the very least -- is to fulfill the bargains I made when I had his trust and confidence. Bill wasn't insisting on it, but I was. He could use me freely, any way he wished, any time he wished -- or not. But I owed him those blowjobs, and he was going to get them. And with any luck my devotion would be compelling enough to keep him from divorcing me. It might not be, but it was surely my best bet.
He let me suck him all the way to completion without grabbing my head or offering any direction. I was proud of that. Any time you can make a man cum without any active participation on his part, you have proven your skill. I swallowed eagerly, licked his cock clean, and slipped back out of bed to waddle downstairs and start breakfast while he showered.
I only stopped long enough to put a bean in the piggy. Time to begin my day.
Wow.
I read those words with a certain amount of pride and satisfaction. It was a solid vindication of my plan, a sign of success I had only dreamed about. I shut Mary's diary and pushed it back under her mattress, exactly where she had left it. She didn't know I knew about it, of course. She thought this tiny, cell-like room was her sanctuary. I mean, I had given her a lock, which she used when she wasn't there. She should expect that I'd keep a key. Indeed, I had other ways in, should I need them.
