Julia The Patriot

"You don't have to do this, Julia. We can find a way." I said. Julia is silent. "You know what it means, don't you?!" I said, incredulously. "He wants you to fuck them!" Mark laughed at me.

"It's okay, honey," she said, rubbing my arm, her eyes full of sympathy for me. "It's okay."

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It's been six months. Every Tuesday at about 8pm I drop Julia off at a place on the other side of town, and I lie awake waiting for her to come back in. Usually it's about 4am. Usually I see her walk in and pull whatever little dress they had her in, over her head. Often she's not bothered to put her bra back on, and sometimes she's totally naked under the dress, but usually she comes to bed in her little, lacy black thong. When I do the washing, I see the thong in broad daylight, and it is coated - coated - in cum. Sometimes, if I pretend to be asleep, I can hear her lying there and playing with her pussy, one last climax as she remembers her evening, and I hear her cum-filled pussy squelching as she fingerfucks herself. Seventeen soldiers taking it in turns. They don't mind sharing without a condom, these guys share everything.

Probably my lowest point was a couple of weeks ago when I got a phonecall at about 2am from Mark. "Come and take your slut of a wife to hospital," he said, "she's got herself sick." I rushed to his apartment. My head was all over the place. "What's the matter with her?" I said when I arrived. The guys looked a bit concerned. Most of them are young, just there for a bit of fun with a hot woman. Some of them were skulking around with no top on, a couple of them were naked. Smoking, beers, music, and my wife throwing up in the bathroom. I rushed to her side. Mark stepped into the bathroom and said "I think your wife had too much cum."

Apparently Julia was still recovering from the poundings she'd been handed out last week, so this week she was staying in her thong (that was all she was wearing right now, of course). The guys were disappointed, but they didn't want to force her into anything, so they struck a deal to make a good night of it - she would suck off every guy who gave her a shot. It was one of the poorer attended "Slut Nights" (Mark's name for Julia's 'appointments'), which was lucky for her. Only thirteen guys showed up.

"Are you fucking stupid?" I asked Mark, holding Julia's hair up as she retched into the toilet. "You can't make her drink that much cum."

"Oh, no-one forced her to swallow," grinned Mark. "That was her choice."

On the way out, I remember saying "come on, Julia, let's get you to the car," and one of the guys - a black kid - said, "her name's Julia?" "Yes," I snapped, "what did you think it was?" He looked at me, genuinely nonplussed. "We just call her cumwhore," he said, innocently. There were peals of laughter as I led her away, laughter at his naivete. Behind me, I heard him say "that's her HUSBAND? What the fuck?!" More laughter. This time at me.

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I drove Julia to hospital, where she had her stomach pumped. The doctors and nurses were really nice and didn't ask any questions, although they indulged in some hushed giggling when they thought we couldn't hear.

On the drive home, I looked across to her, dozing. Her hair was thick with cum and I saw streaks of it, dry, all over her chin, mouth, and tits. Evidently she'd missed a bit, which I was grateful for. She was just in her thong, as her dress stank so we'd put it in the boot. I noticed something.

"Julia, honey, what happened to your wedding ring?"

"Mmm? Oh... I have no fuckin' idea." she said, and went back to sleep.