January-February 2013
“PLEASE DO excuse me; I’ll be right back.”
Claribel scraped the chair back, continuing to smile and chatter as she stood, getting in the obligatory references to the little girls’ room, darn that Mother Nature and her cursed call, yes, yes, there’s a fire somewhere that needs putting out and I’m just the girl to do it, dear lord, if she had to go through any more, she wouldn’t make it. She didn’t actually have to run, but she was, well, focused, to say the least.
No sooner had she gotten the paper on the seat down and lifted her hemline and wrestled her knickers to her knees and turned but she leapt through the ceiling, stopped her heart cold and drowned, standing upright in a public privy with a shriek that at least didn’t reiterate itself when the knock on the door happened again.
“Open up.”
Jesus Fucking Christ, no. “Go away. I’m busy.”
“Open the damn door, Clari.”
“No! Leave me alone, Wyatt, just for a fucking minute. C’mon, night off. Please?”
“Open the door, or I’ll start pounding on it.”
“That’s not going to get you what you want.”
“I could come right through it, too. Do you believe this piece of wood would stop me? Open it.”
Her breath shortened; oh, god, what else he could do. If push came to shove, he could force the door open, unhinge it if necessary, drag her out by the hair, make her pee in front of their friends, then offer her mouth up as a urinal service to anyone who wanted it. Not that any of them would take him up on it, but still, the threat of that idea occasionally ran through her mind, and this was one of those times. She swallowed, let her skirt drop, and unlocked the door. Locks: this place was so upscale.
He opened it, shoving her into the stall until she sat back down. She was almost fully dressed and felt completely exposed, clumsy, akimbo.
“What do you want?”
He spoke slowly, aspirating down toward a low whisper. He often did that; it commanded her attention, and it had a low undercurrent of menace and malice and malevolence underneath that most of the time he didn’t actually feel. It had become a habit more than anything else. “Take off your dress.”
“No—I don’t want—”
He slapped her, violating a limit right off the bat.
###
“OPEN HANDED, not on the face” was the first thing she said after his original, first-time-ever my-god-are-you-insane request to hit her, that had, until right now, after all these—gosh—years, been an unquestioned law. He was so timid that first time, so unsure of what would be acceptable, why she would ever even consent to such nonsense, it was just a fantasy at the time, to see what would happen, get it out of his system, and never in a hundred generations did he expect her to go along with it, to indulge such a petty little-boy application for such a forbidden thing that didn’t exist any more, not since the caves, not since the dark ages, not since granddad’s time, just say it, trust her enough to say it, she’ll shoot you down and that will be that, it’s just a demonstration that I have feelings I’m not supposed to and I’ll share them with you and that’ll be enough and it’ll be over and we can work on the trust we had broken so many times in other ways, and we can move on. She floored him completely when she didn’t laugh, when she didn’t scowl and she didn’t say no, are you kidding me, get away from me you fool, no, that’s not what happened at all. It was a quiet intimate sinful moment he had with his wife and she didn’t make him feel like he was committing a crime or a violation or a trespass at all, forgive us, oh Lord, as we forgive those who trespass against us, it’s alright, I’m glad you told me, I’m actually glad you said something, wait, would it be better like this, you don’t ever have to ask my permission ever again, if I understand how this works, I should, wait, should I kneel, of course, I’ll get on my hands and knees, I’d be glad to, go ahead, wait, would it be better if if I was was b-bare? She was she was willing to let him d-do that to her; by our Father who art in heaven I love this woman, I will never abuse you, I will never abuse this, honey, it’s just a little thing that passes, thank you thank you are you sure thank you. Yes. He spanked her lightly; it wasn’t much more than a pat on the back, er, the butt, and he clutched her long and shuddered and she watched him melt and yes-yes-yes she would do it again, it was just such a little thing and he didn’t make love to her she made love to him and he cried he actually cried she had never seen that before and it melted her and yes, yes, it happened again on another occasion and it was fine: she could do this, yes. She didn’t really comprehend it all but it was what he needed and she could love him this much.
It led to other things, this tiny little insignificant turn of an immature misunderstood expression of power, things they had both been warned against their entire lives, warnings they came to question as they got steeped in it all.
Things escalated, slowly, over time and as he relaxed with her and took care of her and took care of what he did to her, and as she found her own strengths in taking this on from him, and because he could do something slightly wrong with her and not be condemned for it, he opened up, he let his hair down, there weren’t so many eggshells on the floor, and as he took down his fences, so did she. He exposed himself to her, and not just by flashing his dick in her direction—which was never less than funny until the day it suddenly wasn’t—and she fucked him blind. My god, what was that, that, that was something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, to show you something, something about me that I’m not supposed to. She finally confided in him of her own stealthy feelings of not wanting to be a princess, but a whore, being wanton, of burning for men—for him, him—and he had married a dishonorable woman and and that that is alright, dear, I still love you, thank you for telling me, I needed to hear that, I think we can work with that, and they played with that in secret, in the still of their home, never quite out in the open in the world, no one would know the things they would do for each other, and they eventually ended up being many. They never went beyond what she could handle. They never went beyond what he could handle. A fledgling sadist and a fledgling whore. He would tease her and embarrass her and ridicule her and make her do things she didn’t want to and fuck her and she would accept his need to hurt her just a little—at first, of course; it all intensified over time, are you sure that’s okay, please quit asking me that, just shut up and hit me—and she would do cum-stunts for him and she would get him to do even more things to her, things she had to goad him into and she would fuck him. And the secrets grew and took on a life of their own as they more and more got daring, dirtier, demonstrative.
###
UNTIL HERE. Tonight. At the tavern. There were friends just on the other side of that paper-thin wall, and she was terrified someone would come in, find him here, in the women’s facilities with her, doing god-knows-what. Holy fuck, it triggered something in her, something she fought but didn’t want to. Not here. Not tonight. Surprise.
The strike had not even finished leveraging her over to the side before his face was beside hers, being insistent, repetitive, menacing. “Take off your dress.” Wyatt uprighted himself and before she had gotten herself back up, he hit her again.
She simpered a little, clutching the side of her face while he waited for her to recompose herself until she could put her hand down.
“If I do that again, you’ll have something you’ll have to explain.”
“Yeah, my fucking husband came into the women’s room and beat me, demanding I strip off my cleverly assembled ensemble for him. How would you like that to be the explanation that came out?”
“How would you like to show what you do for me in our bathroom at home out there for them? Take off your dress.”
“They won’t sit for that.”
“Do you think it would matter to them that it wasn’t my idea in the first place?”
She choked, “Oh, fuck.”
“Now quit farting around here, and take off your dress. Right god damn now, Claribel.”
“Oh, shit. Shit. Jesus Christ. Fine.” She angrily wrestled with her raiment up over her head, bumping into him, mussing her hair until she could hand it to him, fuming, hating him right here, right now, with an inkling of a plan brewing to do so for all time, naw, you wouldn’t do that, shut up, asshole.
He took her clothing from her and hung it on the coat hook on the door. “That thing, too.” He pointed at her chest. Her dainties were still at her knees.
“God damn it.” She combatted her way into nudity and slumped on the porcelain, covering herself with her hands as best she could. She couldn’t wait any longer; she peed hard, directly into the water and was noisy about it. It vexed her as it always did when he would come in and watch her take care of business; she could never bring herself to look up at him as she urinated, despite his endless cajoling, c’mon, just do it, let me see you, and most of the time, she couldn’t even do it, not with him standing there, looking down at her, snickering when she would make the watery sounds. It was too damn far; this lesson of growing up was hard to break in her. Not like when he sat on the toilet and she knelt in front of him—coming in close, pouring herself into his mouth, being engaged with him as he evacuated his bladder, his bowels, putting her hands where he did when he did such things by himself, feeling the pulse, touching things she shouldn’t, god, will you fuck me—no, that was quite a different matter.
He lynched the corselet gorge on the hook over the other cloth. “Now take your panties the rest of the way off and put them into your pussy.”
“God, you’re creepy.” She wiped herself and pulled the chain to flush.
“Do as I say: masturbate.”
“That is not going to work. This is not turning me on in the least.”
“Then nothing will happen. Do it. And sit up and quit trying to hide yourself.”
“I really hate this.”
“Do I believe that? Stop looking like you hate it, and tip your head up toward me. I want you to look in my eyes.”
She rolled her eyes up and frowned and sneered and conveyed just how much she hated this.
Wyatt’s hands found their way the way they do to undo the clasp of his belt as was his way, opening the top of his pants which promptly slid to the floor, quick-drawing his wife’s gaze from where he had ordered her to look toward what he was doing as he pulled his own undies down toward his knees. Claribel stopped what she was avoiding doing to herself and said “Oh, fuck,” as he was working on unbuttoning his shirt and drawing it back to expose his cock to her.
He was quite erect.
“I suppose this means you want a suckjob.”
“No.” He put his hand onto his cock, and started moving it up and down, pressing it flat against his belly, just an inch or so in each direction. Up, down, up, down, getting faster.
Her shoulders drooped. “You know that’s hurtful.”
“Get back to work. And look up at me.”
“God damn it, Wyatt, please, I don’t like this. This doesn’t make me feel right. Not like this.” Her face had gotten to pleading.
###
THE FIRST time he had taken care of himself in front of her like this, making her watch, standing over her, refusing to let her so much as brush him, she cried. He wiped himself up with his own bare hand and spread it on her tits and painted her lips. It made her feel completely barren, objectified, and the worst was that she felt she was being excluded from him.
“Now you do it.”
“No. Fuck off.”
It was abhorrent for her to caress herself for him; almost as bad as him doing it for her. Sure, guys liked that sort of shit, but it was so invasive, so selfish, so fucking stupid that she could never get off with him watching.
She wasn’t a fuck monster—no, lead me not into temptation, not that one, not then—no matter how much he treated her like one.
After both occasions—because, god yes, he did it again, he just had to do it again, god damn it—of him showing her what he could do to himself, she withdrew from him for a week. He wouldn’t let her retreat the second time like he did the first and he lavished attention on her after that second go-round, making passes at her every day, making with the teasing that is necessary for love toward her, making lewd suggestions at every turn, but he was unapologetic for the insult and by the end of the week she relegated it to an occasional quirk that please promise me that won’t happen too often, I mean, sure, it had its uses, but please, it was much better to be involved and engaged and faithful with each other than to be dissociated, pretending we didn’t have a responsibility to each other, inventing distance where there wasn’t any.
The second time it saddened her, Christ, is this the way it’s going to be, hurry up, get this the fuck over with you shit, and she cried again. He made her lick off his stomach and suck his semen from his pubic hair and she despised being a cum bucket, a cum sponge, a fuck toy, nothing more than his own personalized living nudie French postcard to jerk off to, the fucking god damn asshole jerk, wasn’t everything else the jerk did to her bad enough.
Then again, maybe despised wasn’t quite the right word. That whole second week she was so mad at him for doing that to her again, pushing him physically away from her when he would get frisky, how could he, why doesn’t he get it, but she also couldn’t keep her hands off herself and attacked her pussy with a near-violent frenzy when he wasn’t around. She had no idea how to tell him how much it turned her on because it just wasn’t sanctioned, it wasn’t permitted, I’m not allowed to allow for that, god damn it, my god, no one would accept that she—shit—l-liked being a target for sperm. And when he flashed her for the umpteenth time, it all bubbled up and she took the plunge, she had to, she took the risk, she just had to, she took her husband right there in the kitchen, on the floor, and she she she told him, how she dreamt of of b-being a p-prosti-t-tute, can you can you…still…
…he fucked her in the ass. He threw her off him oh shit what have I done and he forced his way in and he used her he used her ass he used her in the ass with a howl as he pulled on her hair and slapped her and struck her and fucked her and swore at her and called her the name he would bring up in church and on the street that got her to twinge and he called her the name that he called her when he fucked her and when he licked her and when he made gentle sweet idealized love to her and when he teased her and he fucked her and she screamed for more than one reason and he fucked her and she sang as she fucked him back, glory glory hallelujah. That was a yes. That was a god-damn-woman-I-love-you yes, I love you, too, now fuck me like you mean it. Much better to fuck, much better to fuck like this, come on, cowboy, lift your hand and brand your soiled dove with your hot cock, which was an image that was only good once, despite having all the right bits and pieces, and why does that work that way here when so many other ideas work over and over, and they would laugh and wonder and shut up and fuck and oh, that’s better, stupid language, getting in our way, shut the fuck up and fuck, oh god yes sir. That was a year ago.
###
THIS TIME, it was different. She was simultaneously angry and interested and uncaring and embarrassed and I thought we were passed this and what the fuck how could I be getting turned on by this god damn it isn’t it enough that we fuck and you hit me and we fuck and do dirty unspeakable things and we play and it was such a jumble of emotions playing through her that she felt herself floating, and she saw something in his face, something from a night or two from so long ago when things would change, and something caught in her, and her free hand started moving again on herself. Maybe it had something to do with where they were, the amount of time they had, what was—oh my god—going to happen when they left the lavatory.
Small moist sloshy rhythmic out-of-synch sounds filled the water closet, along with the noise of human breathing through mouths, through noses, slight vocalizations, a rustle of cloth, a light clank of a belt buckle against the floor, and oh, how the thoughts swirled, thoughts that were not meek and not pure in heart and by god this is how we shall see God and they were not righteous thoughts and they had thoughts and feelings that were banned outside the bedroom and even then were suppressed by the children of god, by most people; most if not all of the people they knew. People who would persecute such things, who would show no mercy, who did not know the peace that the mercilessness and hunger and thirst this man and this woman comforted each other with all the days of their lives, for better and for worse, through richer and poorer, of the sickness that gave them health, until death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance, love, honor, cherish, and fucking obey, I take thee my bride, I take thee my husband, with my body I thee worship, this is my solemn vow, I pledge, I vow, I swear, I vow, you’re god damn right you will, I vow.
After a few moments of the couple mutually abusing themselves for each other, she broke the silence with a whisper. “Will you cum in my mouth this time?”
He whispered back. “No. I’m going to cum on your face.”
###
SHE FOCUSED. He was going to do it, hell, he was doing it, he was making a whore of her in a way he hadn’t before, in a way that went beyond merely whispering the word to her in church which was nothing but annoying—not here, you fuck—or as they went to here or there, hither or thither, walking around in town with a conspiracy of intimacy which only got her to nervously laugh until they got home when she would rape him, or as he was performing oral sex on her or engaged in sexual intercourse with her, waiting to whisper the magic word to her in her ear as she came, or when she sucked his cock like would be expected of such a lady of the evening, over and over and over, god, I can’t get enough of that, neither can I, say it again, do it again, yes, yes, and even though she didn’t want whatever this was that was happening to happen here, no, please, not here, something in her overrode how terrible, loathsome and wrong it was that he did this to her at all, please, not like this, but god yes, and and and she liked it again, god bless you, my dearest husband, god bless you all to fucking pieces.
“Dear god.”
“And you aren’t going to wash up before you go back.”
“Y-you’re a bad man.”
“And you are a fucking slut.”
“Oh, god.”
Things were escalating; his hand was moving faster as was now hers; they drilled their stares into each other with determinations and commitments that were somehow the same and somehow different and their breathing somehow synched up. He pursed his lips and completed and she gasped. She watched him and he blurred and she watched him make the face that only meant one thing and she loved him.
He didn’t spray, it was more of a splootch or two that landed on her cheek below her eye, a drip splashed on her breast, and the rest went into her hair. Her breath caught and she asked, “May I cum, please?”
“No.”
“You bastard. Thank you, you fucking bastard. God damn it.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
“What? Oh, god.”
“Keep playing with yourself; you can suck the end of my cock now, if you want.”
She lunged at him, and it was his turn to gasp as she suckled him, eeking out the last drops. She nibbled him with her teeth, applying pressure, working on getting him to squeal. His cock in her mouth was a gift from God, for both of them.
He recovered from her attack with a whoop and a Lordie and managed to find a way to keep to his feet with a cock-milker attached to him, nursing on his sex, breathing erratically through her nose; he stood stoic, watching her work herself up some more. “Get closer, Claribel, because I will deny you. You will ask if you can cum again and I will say no, and you will stop.”
She moaned around his dick and ravaged him, drawing him in, getting his penis in her mouth to wiggle, flicking him around inside her mouth with her tongue, chewing on him with her molars getting him to flinch, massaging the base of him with her lips. She breathed deep through her nose, inhaling him, getting his hair into her nose where it tickled, she could live like this, with his cock in her mouth. She whined and she frantically moved her hand faster and faster, two fingers sliding up and down around her clitoris, driving through her labia; she was soaked, she closed her eyes, relishing the cock in her mouth even as it was getting smaller, she prayed he would go ahead and at least allow her to fulfill her oh-god-please duties as his outhouse, getting closer closer closer and god fucking damn it he did it yes do it he released he peed he pissed just a little in her mouth god that made her fucking wild with lust so fucking filthy and I’m sucking his fucking cock and he’s fucking pissing in my fucking mouth I am a fucking hole he shoves his cock into and pisses in and fucks god yes he fucks me god yes god yes and she threw herself back from him with a puff and a sputter and and a a wheeze, please, please, please let me cum.
“No. Take your slut hands off yourself right now, you cunt.”
She groaned and slouched but did as he said, whimpering, her breath shallow and quick; she palpitated. “God fucking damn you Wyatt; it’s been every god damn day now for two fucking weeks.” She tried once to put her hands back anyway and he restrained her and she wailed. She submitted. Now: now she cried; he executed her pleasure. The power they exchanged circled them like angels, like devils, devouring them and it was good, terrible, good, terrible, good, good, god damn good.
###
BEFORE TONIGHT, he had fingered her in bed until she asked and he said no and then she couldn’t sleep and he made her roll over and he put his hand on her breast and held her as she shuddered in frustration, night after night, keep your hands off yourself, that’s for me, it’s mine, give it to me, oh god, please, yes, here, feeling his erection poking into her back, against her ass, and she would wiggle against it and sob until she finally did fall asleep, god, it was torture.
It went on for a day, and then two, and then three, and then four before he would let her finish. Then he would start over and do it all again, and this was as good as hitting her. With this, she suffered, she actually full-on god damn suffered for him—your pleasure is mine, mine to giveth, mine to taketh away—and that, that he couldn’t get enough of.
Neither could she. As hard as it was, neither could she, and she descended or ascended or whatever it was that was happening to her and she submitted to whatever he wanted, thy will be done, and it was glorious when she came, when she finally came, it was the motherfucking kingdom and the power glorious.
The day before she woke him up by sucking his cock, hoping it would get him to relent. It didn’t but he pissed in her mouth right there in bed and she screamed with the frustration of not getting to cum—especially from that—and this morning he pinched her nipple until she woke up and he made her do it again. Fuck, what have I gotten in to, deliver me from evil.
Hell, that’s what. He dragged her through hell, face up, so she could see heaven from down here, and long for it. Thy kingdom cum.
###
“GO STAND in front of the mirror so you can see what you’re doing, and rub the sperm into, let’s see, not your good wanking hand side, the other one, the one my hand was on.”
She started to reach for her apparel with one hand with a frown, and to pull her bloomers out of her pussy with the other. “No, no. You can get dressed after you’ve fixed yourself back up.”
“Fuck you, Wyatt.”
“Hurry up. They are going to start to wonder about us.”
She hesitated for one last long baleful second, and stepped to the mirror and began to rub the semen into her face, putting herself back together—god, could I go out there like this, is he going to let me have at least some of my dignity—spreading it around, hating how it shone, doing what she could to get it out of her hair as best as she could, god, is what just happened in here as plain as day, fuck. Her breathing quivered; she was conflicted. She scooped the last bit as it started to drip off her breast.
“Oh, and force some up your nostril. The one on the other side from your war paint.”
“Oh, godshit.”
He inspected her as he was buckling his pants when she presented herself, nude, panting, heaving her breasts, ashamed of what he was making her do in front of their friends, please, can’t we just go home, no. Not that she would dream of stopping it at this point. It was all she could do to keep her hands at her sides. “Pull out your silkies and put them back on, and finish getting decent.”
Oh, yuck, they were drenched. Yum. Yuck. Yum. Oh, fuck me. Not now.
At the end of the back hall of the establishment they were eating at tonight he took her hand—the one she had painted herself with, and she breathed noisily through her nose, inhaling him as though the smell of semen was more important than oxygen—before they went back into the dining area, and she rubbed his stink into the back of his hand massaging the bones, with the tips of her fingers, with a shy smile and a lowering of her eyes. If she had to be covered with him, then by god, he had to, too.
###
“LOOK WHO I found!” they announced at the same time as they walked into the main room and they laughed and rejoined the soiree. She hiked the back of her petticoats up and bunched it above her butt at the last moment, sure no one could quite see her do it, they weren’t paying attention to her, they had seen her sit on a chair before—okay, maybe not like this, for sure, no, this was something she did at home for him, for her husband, it satisfied something to him that she didn’t even know where that proposal came from, like when she crawled to entertain him that was so silly, so funny, until she did it naked and that was different—so she wasn’t sitting on it: she wrinkled it a different way; she had her bare legs and her bare ass directly on the seat and just the thin line of the threads of her underthings between her legs keeping her pussy from making direct contact with the chair. Not quite like at home. Almost, but not quite. He sat tall and stiff, towering over her, looking down the front of her outfit, oh yes, what is under all that, oh, what I have just seen, and what I will see again tonight and oh, what I could do with such a god damn glorious sight, and he kept his smiles to himself.
The sperm dried and contracted and tightened against the skin on her face throughout the rest of the evening; it flaked and looked like a sunburn that was peeling over her blushing, over the hand prints. Keeping her face generally turned toward her husband made it appear like she was attentive to him, adoring him, coming on to him, submitting to him. He liked that; she struggled with it. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands; one smelled like her, the other smelled like him, and she fidgeted a lot. At one point she ran her fingers of one hand and then the other around the rim of his drink, absently flirting with a little hidden something extra they shared and she smiled a bashful dirty coy smile when he took a drink from it. After whiskeyed-coffee—our daily bread—and a fancy dessert he leaned over and calmly offered to let her cum, if she did it out here, and she could be as quiet and discreet as she wished.
“Fuck you.”
“That’s my girl. Now play with yourself under the table, get your little hand moving right along with it all on your little cunt. Oh, and that was an empty promise: I will deny you again. Go.” He turned back and made lame jokes with the other people at the table. They shoot lame jokesters, don’t they? Hey, she could hope.
He thrilled to the slight trembling she was leaning up against him with. She sat close to him; it presented the appearance they were in love—having the saloon be packed helped there—but the truth of it was what got his gears to turn. She was debased to be sitting here, covered but on display, tidy but sloppy, prissy but shameless, an absolute gutter whore for all who knew how to see, covered in cum, his cum, she was going to make herself orgasm here for him for his whim, for his own twisted desire to see her do that in public and she let him have control over that and she pressed into him to save her, and the paradox that he put her in this situation was part of what he got out of this, that she would do even this for him, my god, no greater love hath a woman than this. It didn’t always work. Sometimes her rebellions got out of hand and then he looked like nothing but an asshole when he wouldn’t back down, you are such a fucking monster, and nothing but a pansy-ass wimp when he would, what do you think, should we maybe press the doilies today, too, my dear? But on nights like tonight, when she would fight but cave, the power of it all overwhelmed him and her both, and he did everything he could to restrain himself, from letting it get too far and throwing her on the table and fucking the daylights out of her right here in front of god and everyone.
Which would be fun, to say the least. Someday. See what a god damn glorious slut I have?
She had her own battles to wage with herself and with him and with her waiting adoring tittering unaware public. She wanted to take off her Sunday best, let them see the other marks on her body, the ones they had both fought hard to have happen, let them see the bitch who fucks, who lets men, one particular man, do things to her she wasn’t supposed to, and she did things for him she desperately wanted to that he actually wasn’t all that interested in but allowed for it, god bless him—it showed how far she would go for him and that much he liked—as long as she cleaned up the mess, and saw to it she didn’t smell like a sewer all the damn time.
What the fuck was wrong with her to make her want that? Motherfucker.
Having her pleasure herself in front of their friends in public while trying to remain unseen as doing such a disgraceful thing while wearing slimy pantalettes with his semen on her face got his own breath to arch through cycles of nitrogen-and-noble-gas feast and famine, she was such a slut and he loved that, it made his hard-on return with a rage and a vengeance under the table, bringing its own warpath, nagging him to get her to go under the table to take care of it: another approach to his problems worth daydreaming about.
“Wanna fuck?” He whispered to her. She didn’t answer, not with words. She was busy ignoring him, talking to the person next to her without turning the humiliating side of her face away from the man she pledged her troth to, appearing to be coy and cute to those who bothered to look when all she really wanted to do was hide the side of her face that smelled like her husband, that was tight from the drying of sperm, that just had to look obvious by now, she wanted to go, she wanted to get out of here, to take her lord and master to the street and fuck him right there in the dirt in front of god and everyone and disobey him when he would deliver on his promise of denying her yet another orgasm.
Damn him. He had been playing with this and pissing her off and turning her on for months now, making longer and longer stretches he would deny her and when he would let her, when he would let her cum, the fucking world would fucking end a glorious fucking end and as much as she hated going through the process, the fucking end justified this fucking means, and he succeeded in pushing yet another one of her buttons when he reached under the table and pulled slightly on her thigh. Maybe he would wank her with her; help, as it were, ooh, I do declare, what a lovely gentleman-caller, tipping his hat, laying out his coat over a puddle, I picked these flowers for ya, why laws-a-mercy, thank you kind, sir, yes, this is my vagina, may I offer it to you. Having fingers from both of their hands inside her made the location of the axis of the whole fucking planet shift. She jostled her hips enough that she could start to slowly spread her legs, hitching the front of her gown up further, and leaned forward to the edge of the table.
She leaned her semen-stained face onto her hand on the table—looking bored to those who looked; shit, anything but…—and the heat poured off her skin, or was it the spunk, as she began her work and fuck him he pulled his hand back out, god damnit, I’ll show you, you bastard, her lover’s work was working on herself right out there, in public, in front of friends as she rubbed herself, she played with her slit, ohmigod, how scandalized would everyone be to know what a fucking slut and a fucking whore and a fucking bitch and a fucking cunt she had to be, she just had to be, to do such a thing here, now, at the behest of her fucking rat’s-ass-bastard husband who godamnit would not let her finish, not here, not now, and this was simply an exercise in frustration she could not walk away from because secretly she loved not having this kind of control, it was something else she could give up to him, too, please take it honey, you said I could cum and I will make myself believe that you will let me this time, because now, now it will be motherfucking mortifying for me to make the face that we all know what it means, to make the sounds that don’t have any description beyond “a woman in orgasm” and to do it all to give-us-this-day surprise you all, we’ll probably get thrown out, everyone will laugh at me, some of these people will never speak to us again and I don’t care I’ll do it for you if that’s what you want I don’t care I want to cum I want to cum I want to cum I want to—
“Stop,” came the whisper she couldn’t didn’t wouldn’t refused to had no capacity no desire no motivation no way in god’s green earth could she take the meaning of what that meant she doesn’t want to hear. God damn it, wife.
—cum I’m going to there is no power in the world that is going to stop me I’m disobeying you you monster for teasing me relentlessly for so—
“I said stop.”
—god damn fucking long oh shit oh shit oh shit—
###
HER FACE expanded, the noose tightened and she couldn’t breathe, her head-holding-hand shot down to the table, grabbing the first glass she could put her hand to, which ended up being her husband’s, the one she had polluted with her fingers that were full of him and full of her and she yanked it up to her lips half-no-mostly blind and sucked on it and oh my fucking god I’m drinking us and she took a drink that was big and desperate and overwhelming and—
“Claribel. Are you alr—”
—she started coughing and it was a fit that she couldn’t stop and she leaned over the table and her hand flew and she dropped the glass and she coughed and she came as she hacked and she came and water came up her nose and she came and her knots all exploded and she wet the oak of the chair right through her already-soaked modesty-cloth she came so hard she came she came she came. A tear fell. The table felt cool against the hot side of her face. She shed some white flecks onto the tablecloth. An eternity of rest transpired.
Wyatt patted the back of his wife as she brought the attention of the entire table to her and whatever blushing she was doing before paled in comparison and god damn it woman you insolent disobedient brazen—
“Are you alright?”
—and she coughed on and gasped on and on and wheezed on and on and on and she still couldn’t breathe and she fought to cover and recover and my god she was still cumming and then she was laughing and apologizing and bringing her one hand then the other the one that had fresh smells to her face and she inhaled the sex and she closed her eyes and she relished and came down in shivers and she made a face—not the unmistakable face, but a face that spoke of embarrassment, and apology, and I’m sorry don’t pay no mind to me, I’m okay, really—and the party reluctantly carried on look at her was she choking no she’s fine keeping an eye on her out of the corner of their eyes as she waved her hands and smiled and laughed.
He rubbed along her undergarments and leaned over to whisper what everyone assumed would be the right thing for him to whisper, about her being alright, and gosh, are they going to go, she really looks like that was hard on her, poor thing, it’s been a long night already, you know Claribel is so devoted to him, it took it all right on out of her, yeah, they’re outta here, I hope she’s alright, do we have to go too, I’ll be sure to call on her in the morning.
“Bad girl. No hands tonight; I’m gonna use my belt.”
She turned up to whisper to him, rubbing some of the dried sperm onto the side of his face as she passed and she kissed him; she put her arms around him. “Bring it on, you pansy-ass bitch.” When they finally got home, she howled long into the night, when they weren’t taking a break from that little expression of trust or whatever the hell it was between each other for some serious fucking, piss drinking, ass fucking, when are we going to get your whole asshole hand inside me, asshole, soon, baby, soon, and the face fucking, the hair pulling, the fucking, getting the other side of her face to match in redness, too much, gotta re-correct some more, god, the eternal profanity, and don’t you ever stop fucking, fucking, screaming, fucking, fucking...
###
THEY EXCUSED themselves for the evening and did not even make it to the wagon before other more pressing matters exerted themselves and she lost some underwear in the process. A small price to pay, she thought; it would take another month for the apocalypse to come about again, a month—after which it was two months until her annihilation came about again, and then three before decimation and then four before holocaust, and then winter set in and she went positively insane until spring came around again and he turned her loose in town for Armafuckinggedon, my god, there wasn’t anyone or anything she wouldn’t fuck by then—which for now presented her with a much more difficult set of chores, what with the edging, and the kneeling, and the cock-sucking-way-on-beyond-loving-gentle-caring-fellatio blowjobs, I love it when you gag, honey, it’s glorious, and the clit rubbing, and the stoppings, and the startings, and the endless dirty talk, and the starting, and the stopping, and the at-fucking-last fisting, god, and the spanking and the whipping and the wax and the needles, please, dear god, Wyatt, haven’t I suffered enough, no, Claribel, you fucking cunt, you fucking haven’t, you will touch yourself every day and you will stop just as you are about to cum, you bitch, then you will do it twice a day, and then three and then four, you worthless whore, yes sir, and the starting, and the stopping, you will cry every god damn day, oh my fucking god yes, and the rimming, and the night after night after night of the disgusting awful terrible why-aren’t-these-boring-me dirty stories from Genesis, Judges, and the Song of Solomon that they would read to each other and what did they mean along with what the Apostle said about men and women, wives, submit to your husbands, oh, okay, sure, if you put it that way, fuck me, it was the lack of hysterical paroxysm, the build up with no release, the damn relentless vulvar stimulation, god fucking damn it all to fucking hell, please, and putting everything she could please in her pussy and in please her asshole and in her please mouth, please, and the ferocious endless delicious devilish frustrating dear god when will this ever stop teasing, never you slut, never, fuck me for ever and ever, you bastard, god fucking damn you, fuck me, please, please, please…
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