I had to play a long game with you, after all you didn’t know you were a whore, and why would you? Your went to church with your parents well into your late teens, and then you married that nice boy, but I listened to the silences at the end of your sentences when you talked about him, a squeaking wheel that needed a little grease.
You had all this time because well he was traditional, and didn’t want you working… and fresh out of high school you got bored; your friends were off to college and its hardly like cleaning his place kept you busy all day. So I put liquor inside you and took you from him, to the movies he wouldn’t like, to classes and galleries, using long words and enthusiasm, showing off and then including you in a world you didn’t really understand. Then all I had to do was wait for the inevitable jealous argument, for you to show up crying on my doorstep, needing someone to talk to about it, someone you trusted, someone with experience. So we drank and I put you at ease, laughed about it, and when I told you he’d shown up at my work to confront me, I’d silenced your apologies, using the words that would later grow in your head… he’s intimidated its just schoolyard jealousy. Minimizing his rage.. its not a big deal, making him seem comical; he’s scared you’re going to leave him, that’s just silly, inexperience talking. I made him dismissable, small. I brought my sentences to a close with the same theme …its not as though you’ve thought about cheating on him. He’s the only man you’ve ever been with. The only one.
It’s been 6 months now since you first did this, drunk, horny and full of curiosity. You’d been so grateful the morning after, Upset over what happened, worried you’d ruined things, that you were a stupid girl and I was so smart and you’d ruined everything. You’d asked me never to mention it. No problem, I’d said. The relief and thanks poured out of you in a torrent as I said it wasn’t a big deal, you were curious, you had questions, I was always happy to help, and that maybe next time you get the desire, you look at porn and masturbate. Watched that tiny smile flash across your face when I told you that you did a good job, that you have nothing to be ashamed about.
I’d sent you home with links, suggestions, told you to ask questions, sounded you out… reassured you; no, its not cheating to fuck yourself, What do you mean you don’t have sex toys? I’ll take you shopping. Its only fair after you did such a good job sucking my cock. I chose for you, watching your face as I took out my wallet, waiting for you to say it. You didn’t disappoint : "No, you’ve already done so much for me." Good girl.
…Now you’re back here with another story, without tears: He wants you to go to counselling with your pastor, but thanks to cuckold porn, to the links I sent you, to the fat black rubber cock he found under the bed and cried over, you rubbing his back, my words in your head he’s just threatened and scared and pathetic, and this is his way of trying to control you. its childish. Its sad.
Marriage is a commitment. You’ll never leave him, but you need this. It feels right to be nice and buzzed, in the middle of day, playing hooky from aerobics on your knees sucking my cock. After he found your birth control you started showing up every day. He’d raged at you for not wanting to start a family, for not having sex with him. You’d called him insecure, stupid and small, my words falling out of your mouth. That night I’d called you a cunt for the first time and watched you blush, squeezing your thighs together, staring past the video camera as you watched yourself get fuck on my TV.
Every day, now. Just a little pick-me up. You need it. He doesn’t need to know, and well, its not like he owns you anyway, is it, cunt?
That’s fucking hot.