Friday Night Pt. 02

This is put together from extracts from my diary and a cut-and-paste from Facebook. Don't expect it to make too much sense timeline-wise; if I wrote that something happened yesterday, it could have been three years ago.

A stiff dose of reality

If you believed and liked everything my wannabe cucky husband wrote in his diary, you probably won't like this, so it's best you just naff off now!

Firstly, I don't have a small army of lovers with huge cocks pumping gallons of cum into me every Friday night. Nor are there any with small cocks. In fact, boring bitch that I am, I have never had a cock other than my sick puppy husband in me! He took my cherry before we were married, and he remains my only lover.

Lover is a relative term these days. I haven't had a good fucking for three years. I'm sorry to say it's getting less and less. It's my own fault to a certain extent; I allowed his sick fantasies to become our norm.

My inaccurately reported raunchy Friday nights out were spent in the main hall of what used to be the miners welfare club in our village. I don't even get to dance; Friday night is bingo night with the old, well-past-it girls and a few shagged-out men who haven't succumbed to black lung yet.

I've decided that tonight all that shit ends; it's Friday, and my sick in the head man is taking me out. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming, he is going to see what a crushingly boring five or six hours he puts me through every Friday night.

In the future, I don't mind what we do as long as it doesn't involve cornflour felt-tipped pens and two little fucking ducks. Personally, I'd prefer to stay in and shag, then we can go out on Saturday instead. In the same place, every Saturday there is a live band and a DJ who both play 50s to 80s music. Both fill the dance floor. Tonight, though, the bastard is going to suffer an awful fate for a man. Much worse than castration with a blunt spoon: miners' welfare bingo. If you have no experience with this, I can promise you, it's dire.

I've told him if he needs me to be his Dome, I'll happily spank him. I actually enjoy that as long as Fanny gets a good stiff poking after. I'll very happily wear the kind of clothes he goes on about in his sick fantasies. All he needs to do is get his very short arms to the bottoms of his very deep pockets and buy me some. He is a tight-fisted bastard.

If he leaves a thick, sticky deposit in my love slit, he can eat that if he wants to. I'll even pretend I enjoy it. The cost to him per night is a few dances, a bag of crisps, and ten quid's worth of Gin and Tonic. You have to admit, I'm a cheap fuck, and everyone says I look good for my age!

I'd leave the idiot but for one very important consideration. I love the twisted fucker to bits; I always have and always will. He floats my boat; he took my cherry on the roof of the bike sheds when we were in our last year at school. Actually, I dragged him up there and gave it to him on a stick for his sixteenth birthday.

He claimed he had fucked hundreds, but that was all bollocks. He was just as clueless as me. He was hot, though, sadly, at school I was not. I just didn't have tits then, not even fried eggs. I grew my hair down to my arse to show everyone I was a girl.

My mum, still my best friend today, knew how self-conscious I was about my plank-like chest. She bought me padded bras and inserts and held me when I cried about my sunburnt feet. Nothing to cast a shadow over them, see!

My friends at school still called me BB, the boobless beast. I thought I was adopted; my mum has a rack like Raquel Welch. Mum said hers didn't appear until she was pregnant with me. I didn't believe her. I thought I had a bright future as the principle boy in the theatre.

When my man eventually got me up the duff with our first daughter, the tit fairy finally visited, complete with her magic tit wand. I was three months gone; the fucking bitch must have battered me black and blue with it. I thought I was going to have to get a scaffolder in for the next six months.

I went from an A cup, where most of the space was cotton wool, to an F, a fucking F cup, for god's sake. My man thought he had died and gone to heaven. I was taking painkillers for the backache until mum sorted me out. She had to make my maternity bras for me. I couldn't buy any big enough. A year later, when my milk dried up, I was left with a pair of hooters that entered a room three steps ahead of me. Sicko loves them, so at least that's some compensation for never being able to find a dress in a charity shop. He calls me his dead heat in a Zeppelin race.

The Big Night

On the bed are one of my underwear sets, suspenders, frilly knickers, and a bra. My Little Black Dress, just long enough for me to wear my stockings with a pair of oh-so-shiny black "fuck me bandy" stilettos I don't have all that sexy stuff he says I have. No leather or latex corsets; no lace-up thigh boots, chance would be a fine thing.

Neither have I ever invited anyone back to our house to fuck me. If I ever do, it will be quite some time after I bury the sick fucker, if at all. I do love him; no fuck that, 20 years on, my girls have both left home, and I'm still besotted with him.

Next to my stuff are his tee shirt, jeans, and smelly trainers. I'll work on the clothes when I've broken him of this self-loathing shit. I am--no, strike that, we are going to get our life back.

After Laura, my second baby arrived, kicking and screaming, but he couldn't get me up the duff again. That was due to a sports injury; some bastard kicked him in the nuts when he played rugby for the pit team. He only has one that works at all, and not as well as it should; the other one is made of rubber. If I ever find out who kicked him, I'll stab the bastard.

My poor, sick puppy has a low sperm count now. The blue line refuses to appear on the test strip. I would have liked a boy, but it wasn't to be. My two girls are enough. They have to be, don't they? I've told both of them I'll disown them if they don't give me a couple of grandsons. I've got a friend from school; poor cow, she can't have any!

The compensation should be a proper fuckfest every weekend where my fanny gets seven pints of muff juice pounded out of it. To be replaced by seven pints of his man's milk. Not me making up yet another batch of fake man cum. I'm spending far too much of my housekeeping money on natural yoghurt and cornflour and sticking it up my prat and chocolate starfish. It's ruining my icing bag, and I had to buy a new piping nozzle. I couldn't bear to use it for cake making knowing where it's been.

The crazy thing is that while he ain't porn star dimensions in the trouser department, it is over 7 inches long and thicker than my vacuum cleaner hose. I literally shat myself the first time he put it inside me, up on the bike shed roof. It doesn't hurt now, except if he is in too much of a hurry to put it in my brownie. I want it back where it belongs, rammed hard up my baby chute! It's not asking too much, is it?

Changes

When I told him that for the last year or so he has eaten lots of cornflower and natural yoghurt out of my chuff, he didn't like it much. You should have seen his face when he told me he could taste the difference between a black man's cum and a white man's cum.

"It's a drip or two of reggae reggae sauce, you fuckwitt;" I yelled at him. I've never even seen a black willy in the flesh, never mind emptied one. That completely took the wind out of his sails.

I dragged him to the club last Friday evening. Just so he could see what he has put me through for the last two years! He wanted to go to the tap room after two games of bingo.

No, you're fucking not; you can stay here and suffer like I've done for the last three years. I've got a good mind to leave you here to mark all the cards while I go off to flirt with your friends. There isn't one of them in the bar room who wouldn't stab my clam if I gave them half a chance. Even the old gasping fuckers in here are always trying to grope my papps. But silly daft whore me wants you and only you, you dopy great pillock.

I made him sit through another two bingo cards, then gave the rest to old Elsie, a bingo special forces warrior who can mark a dozen cards at once. If she had a line or a house on mine, she would weigh me in with half the winnings. Then I took my man to the bar and made him buy me a gin and tonic or six while his friends got a feel of my tits while he pretended he wasn't looking. I'm not really a slut; well, I am. I'm a one-man slut, but I like to fool around with his friends. That is the keeping my clothes on kind of fooling around. They all played rugby with him. They all know the rules; my friends are their wives.

When we got home, the poor fecker was bewildered again; he couldn't believe it. I even showed him how I made the fake cum. It's easy; there is a girl on YouTube who shows you how it's done. I played him the clip.

Just for good measure, I made him take me back to the welfare the next evening as well. There was a rhythm and blues band on. They were good, and we both remembered how to jive. There is a real top quality sprung dance floor at the welfare. He enjoyed himself, and so did I. I didn't have to make him put his hand in his pocket once; he kept my G&Ts flowing all night long without a word from me.

I was as randy as a rabbit and a bit pissed when we got home, and so was he, but the strange thing was, he came home with a canoe in his pocket. For the first time in absolutely ages, I got my little arse screwed off. Three times he fucked me--three fucking times--it was like being eighteen again.

On the last one, he ploughed my little furrow for an hour. I was so sore in the morning, it was untrue. I didn't complain, though; I squirted a whole tube of Canesten Cream up my prat. I prayed that my swelling would go down before his came back up again.

I've found my man again. If it's possible, I love him even more. I've also found out I'm the one who has to do all the running and interpret what he asks for into what he really wants.

Much later, with help from two women who really understand men, which I know I never will, it finally dawned on me that he was trying to give me permission to get pregnant again. What a fucking stupid twat he is. I finally ended this cuckold thing by screaming at him, I don't just want a baby; I want your fucking baby, you imbecile. I think that was the point he accepted we weren't going to have a baby boy. He has a little boo hoo on my boobs that night. I lay awake holding on to him all night long.

Two days later I had to go to a police station three villages away to bail the stupid bastard out of the cells. I was told he walked into a boozer, straight up to a guy at the bar and beat the ever loving shit out of him. I was seething with him.

A day later the guy dropped the charges and everyone in the pub claimed, when the old Bill asked, they were in the toilet. The landlord said he was in the cellar changing a barrel.

I was still seething when two of our local coppers came round a day or two later. One of them was a Sargent hubby knew from way-back. He said you were heard to say to the victim, that's for my son. When my man growled at him I haven't got a son have I! The elder copper's face fell a mile when it all dropped into place for him.

He said to the younger I think its time for us to leave these good people in peace now. At the door as I was seeing them out I politely asked for the poor man's name. I wanted to thank him for dropping the charges.

I didn't know, my man was stood behind me. As the sergeant turned to say something hubby butted in, for fuck sake don't tell her. She will cut his nuts off and laugh while the bastard bleeds to death.

I had another sleepless night that night just holding my man in bed. Ive never seen him cry before, I hope to god I never see him cry again. My hubby ain't so daft after all is he?

So now we play games. I play games with him. I'm beginning to realise that the other thing behind the cucking business is the fact that he is a total sexually submissive slut. Its taken me well over twenty years to realise this! And I call him a fuckwit!

I can live with that; you may guess from my tone that I'm a gobby, bossy cow. If my fanny gets pumped full of his man milk on a regular basis, I'll positively encourage it. I had him a little worried last week. It's his own fault though; the novelty of getting thoroughly rogered again five or six times a week has worn off, and I found myself hankering for a bit of variation.

As well as having his very adequate cock in my snatch, I love having my bits licked as well. He wasn't spending sufficient time down there inspecting the coal face. Well, I didn't think he was, and wifey gets what wifey wants these days. So I told him to get the bench ready. He was under no illusion; this night was for me; he didn't even warrant a second thought.

His chastity tube, his idea, don't forget, not mine, went in the dishwasher that morning when he was at work. As soon as he got home, I gave it to him. I told him to shower and then report to his mistress for locking and a well overdue spanking. If you shake the fucker more than three times after you piss I'm going to consider that wanking then your fucked boy, Do you understand?

He had to come downstairs with his nuts in the keeper ring, but he couldn't get the tube on because he had a hard on. There is a bag of frozen peas in the kitchen freezer. It's been there since Thatcher was in power. Two minutes with that wrapped around his tackle He winged like a five-year-old who isn't allowed sweets; I laughed at him. I suppose it always frees my inner cruel bitch. I laughed as I clicked the lock shut and hung the key in the valley of sperm death.

I sat him down for his dinner, just the first course, he had a large, very leisurely helping of my little prawn cocktail. It's a secret recipe only one prawn but lots of lady sauce

Then I cuffed him and had him naked on his knees just licking my axe wound while I read a book. Well, I read the first line about 500 times, and I still have no idea what the fuck it's about.

He has a thing for a bald fanny. Preparing for the day, I bought a complete home waxing kit for Fanny. To be honest, she didn't like it much or the tweezers after. Ripping out clumps of muff pubes isn't my idea of fun.

I have to say though, when I finished, my little damp, sexy slit looked so good and I'd have kissed it myself if I could reach it. It was very worth it; the look on his face as I held him by his hair prior to letting him start was a picture.

I suppose now that I appear to be killing the cuck thing off, I've got a very nice fun bar and a lovely, talented tongue to play with. To begin, I held him with his nose pressed into me. I have a nasty little riding crop. I bought it from a riding stable when I went for horse riding lessons in the boring cuckold years. All he was allowed to do for an hour was sniff my juicy quim and lick my soft, shiny lips.

I had a very gentle, slow-burning orgasm while he did this. It took a long time, and sadly it fucked his knees up for dancing that weekend. I'll have to make him a nice cushion to kneel on because, as sure as eggs is eggs, it's happening again. I don't think he was aware of my orgasm; I didn't scream and shout or try to rub the nose off his face while it was happening. Secret little orgasms--it's good to be a girl.

I think I have a pretty twat; even after my two girls, it's nice and tight and neat. It doesn't look like a doner kebab some drunk has dropped and then trodden on. I'm afraid I'm going to have to raid our holiday fund, though! Waxing beats shaving into the ground, but it still grows back. I've had a test patch done now; electrolysis is the way forward for this girl and her little hairless honeypot.

If he tried to put his tongue inside me to hurry it along, he got six really good cuts with the crop. I doubled that when he tried to get my clit out to play before I was ready.

I said I wasn't doing this for revenge, but I knew I was. He had hurt me with his stupid hot wife fantasies, I knew why now, he was due a bit of leniency and I figured if I kept a lid on it and didn't get too outrageous, I was good to go for a few of thease. And I'm not kidding; he does love eating my prat.

His little man wasn't enjoying himself in its little prison at all, and little girl, oh yes, there is definitely a little girl in this story, was having the time of her life. The little man did get to enjoy himself eventually.

New Stuff

My sick fucker's favourite way to cum is a titty wank. Until the day I waxed my fanny, I didn't like doing it much. As I said, I love him, so I do things I don't like if I know he wants something. I read stories about women cuming giving their men one. How the fuck does that work? The tit fairy didn't supply me with a valley full of nerve endings!

However, I'd just had my puss worshipped, and I do mean worshipped for hours. Well, it felt like that. Fanny was tingling, and I thought, "What the fuck, give the boy a treat; he deserves a lot more than a hand job for that. I lathered my puppies in KY jelly and unlocked his tube. It hurt the poor bastard getting it off because he was so hard.

I pushed my boobs together around his cock; Squeezed, lifted them once so his nob head disappeared, let them fall, his nob head reappear firing. He squealed like a girl. I don't remember him cuming like that ever. Not even when he was 18. It was everywhere--ropes and ropes of his jizz, in my eyes, in my hair, and some went up my nose. He got a facial, and I got a facial. A big blob dripped off my nose onto my tits. His stuff sticks to everything, like shit on an army blanket I was on the floor, rolling around with laughter, tears were running down my face. My belly hurt because I laughed so much. "Man, have you no self-control at all," as I said? He started to get a bit shy and self-conscious about it and started apologising.

I cut that shit out by licking every drop I could get my tongue to. Then he cleaned my face with his tongue. Fuck it was good, It's not replaced shagging; tit-wank never will; for me, nothing will. There is still nothing better for me than my big, strong man wrapping me in his arms, holding me tight so I can't escape him, and then rogering me until I'm sore.

Tit wank, It's just another arrow in our quiver. We were learning stuff we should have known about each other years ago. He nearly changed everything the day he licked my arse. I very nearly left the planet, and he realised very quickly that for whatever reason my poop chute exit is extremely sensitive after he has kissed and licked my pussy lips for a couple of hours. Yes, it went fairly rapidly to a couple of hours when I realised he'd happily camp out for a week there if someone brought him a cup of tea once in a while.

I don't know for sure yet; I need to work out how to control it, but he may get another fantasy played out by getting his pole in my brown hole a bit more often as a reward for a bit of extreme cunt and arse licking.

I think his record before I detected boredom creeping in was a couple of minutes over three hours. I keep it to two or so hours now. I started to get a bit lost in it after that. The thing about being in control is that you need to stay in control.

We are now finding out things about ourseles we should have known years ago. It came as a surprise to me to find I was a bit of a natural dominatrix. Sometimes I can be as big a fuckwit as he is.

Every significant point in our relationship has been decided by me. Getting a simple yes out of him is like squeezing blood from a stone. What makes it even more difficult for me is that he was born with a major disability. The prick cannot say no, well not to me anyway.