Missionary Work Pt. 02

I'd always loved sex. Any kind of sex. At college, I was considered very kinky. Do you know how hard it is in college today to be considered kinky? My sorority sisters didn't know a position or hole they didn't like. But I was always proud to take it a step further. My nickname was Subway, because of how many riders I could carry.

Then I met Robert Karlsen. Tall, blond, Icelandic hunk of man, but tender and loving. I'd just graduated college and had my first job at the firm Bobby worked for. I saw him, and it was over. This was my man.

We dated for three months before we got sexual. I was crawling the walls but didn't want to appear slutty and Bobby was taking it slow, but oh, so thoughtful. Everything with Bobby was so romantic. Flowers, candies, an orchid for my wrist on our first date. He opened doors, pulled out my chair; everywhere and every day he treated me like a queen. But.....

There always seems to be a but. (Yes, he had a handsome butt, but that's not what I mean). He was Icelandic, and I suppose that explains it. He loved fish. And not just any fish, unless it was the most smelly, disgusting thing in the world. Now, I don't like fish. We didn't grow up with it in the Midwest, like they do here on the Coast. Yes, there was lake fish and trout, but my mother was terrified of bones. She always told us the story of a childhood friend who choked to death on a fish bone. So, except for canned tuna, fish never touched our lips.

Bobby, on the other hand, never snacked on chips or crackers -- for him it was anchovies and sardines. That I could take, to a point. Knowing that there are bones in them while he drops them in his mouth like a trained seal is really hard for me to take.

No, the real problem was his preference for dinners. Lutefish was hard to take, but Surstomming makes me want to heave. Scratch that -- it made me heave. The smell is atrocious. But then he likes "foreign" dishes, as if rotting herring was Apple Pie American. No, there's Shiokara from Japan, and Hakari from Iceland are so revolting I threw up on the table when he tried to get me to try Shiokara. The waiter looked at the remains of my lunch on the table and said, "That's a novel approach to Shiokara I hadn't seen before!" He smiled down at me as he gathered the four corners of the tablecloth. "But a wise choice. I'll bring you a shot of whiskey. I'm told it helps." It did. I later bought a bottle to keep on hand.

The damned Hakari he has sent to him by a cousin in Iceland. It's some kind of fermented shark. He had invited me to dinner, thinking I'd try it, but when he opened the door, I started gagging and ran back to my car. That almost finished us.

But I loved Bobby, and I was his queen. He agreed to keep his fish away from me and I agreed to leave him forever if he didn't. I'd still catch whiffs of the fish dishes on him (I think he sweats the stuff, sometimes), but not enough to make me want to lose him. I thought we'd worked it out. Then we had sex.

Like I said, I loved sex, any kind of sex. But my Icelandic god had some problems. First, when I gave him a blowjob, the image in my head was that I was sucking on a dead fish. Literately. A dead, rotting fish. His penis tasted and smelled of fish. But I soldiered on, then wished I hadn't.

He came in my mouth, big time. I guess he hadn't had sex or "relieved" himself in all the time we dated. He gushed. And suddenly I had a mouthful of slimy Surstomming. Or lutefish or Hakari, I don't know. It was so fucking disgusting. I gagged and just made it into the bathroom before vomiting.

You know, dating a guy who makes you vomit usually ends the relationship. But I loved Bobby. I lied and told him oral sex was disgusting. The problem was, I really enjoy oral sex, but not if it was going to end with a mouthful of revolting, decaying fish taste.

I love Bobby. But it turned out he was not very good at sex, except for one position: Missionary. In any other position, he went at it with gusto, but it was like being poked repeatedly with a pool cue. Not a good feeling. Getting him to slow down or adjust his angle never seemed to make a difference. I was weeping by the time he got off. I never let him try anal -- I didn't think my intestines could take it. I think I would have ended up in the hospital with a shredded colon.

But my Icelandic god was a god with the missionary position. Somehow, he just naturally went in at the right angle to stimulate my g-spot and my clitoris. He could make me cum like no one else ever has. God, I love that man.

Bobby was willing to do anything for me, so when I told him everything else was disgusting or offensive or unsanitary, he would let it go. He was my missionary man.

I loved him so much, when he asked me to marry him, I swore to forsake all others, but in my mind, I was forsaking all the sex acts that I enjoyed. I gave them up for Robert Karlsen.

Three years into our marriage, Bobby was working harder than ever, with longer and longer hours. He began traveling to other locations, leaving me alone sometimes for weeks at a time. He had his brother Doug come over and take me to dinner and to family events. As a result, we spent a lot of time together.

One night, after celebrating the birthday of one of my sister-in-law's at Bobby's parents' house, I drank too much. Not sloppy drunk, just feeling good, like I did in college. Doug drove me home, and not wanting to be alone, I invited him in for a nightcap.

One became five, and neither of us was feeling any pain. We were sprawled on either end of the couch and started talking about life. It turned to sex and in frustration I blurted out that I missed giving blowjobs. I wasn't so drunk that I wasn't instantly embarrassed, but when Doug wanted to know what I meant, I explained about the fish and the slimy semen it seemed to create.

Doug nodded, as he sipped his whiskey. "Yeah, Bob always goes for that shit. Don't know how he does it. I can't stand any of it."

"You don't eat that fish?" I asked. Somewhere between his negative reply and my next conscious thought, I had his penis in my mouth. Did I mention that I love giving blowjobs? It was like coming home.

And his semen -- I don't know what Doug eats but it tasted like ambrosia. It had to be the best tasting stuff I'd ever had.

I was horrified to realize what I'd done. I love Bobby more than life, more than sex. Then I felt Doug's cock twitch in my hand. I stroked it. I licked it. I took it back in my mouth.

When he was hard, he fucked me doggy. Then I cleaned him up, and we rested. I woke him in the morning, sucking down his morning wood. We didn't get out of bed until I'd coaxed three more loads out of him.

I do love Bobby. But God, I love sex. I missed it so much. My affair with Doug broke the dam.

That was just the beginning. Doug and I screwed every chance we had, even after he met and married Megan. He became my Wednesday hump. Monday was Malcolm. He came to the door selling solar panels. He had a smooth sales pitch and I said, "Well aren't you a silver-tongued devil. I'll bet you could do wonders with that tongue, couldn't you?" I don't know exactly how it ended up, but he was happy to not make a sale. Our preferred foreplay was 69. He comes back every week to try again. And again. I love Mondays. He really does have a magic tongue.

I was having trouble moving some furniture in the house while Bobby was away. My neighbor Gloria sent over her sons, Darrell, and Donnie. Twins. They were in college. I'd never had twins, but I did remember how much I enjoyed being split roasted. I gave them a master's course. Soon, they were going for a PhD (Plow me Harder, Dear). They scheduled their courses to be able to attend my classes on Tuesdays. It wasn't quite a gangbang, but those boys just knew how to work together so well. We got into a little BDSM. At first, I disciplined them, but they soon turned the tables (at my urging) and showed a real flair for dominance and punishment. My ass would tingle for hours afterwards.

Luis and Jose were there every Thursday, doing the yard. They were young, virile and just a little potbellied. Somehow that and the smell of the lawn and earth on them made it inevitable that I'd get a little spice in the semen I was swallowing. They were rough and hard, and pounded me front and back in a quick frenzy that left me weak. They'd fuck me as soon as they got to my yard, and quite often again after they finished the yardwork. I felt strange paying them. I mean, should they pay me for the sex, or should I pay them for more than just yardwork?

Fridays were my free day. I usually spent it alone, so I'd be as fresh as possible for Bobby on the weekend. But sometimes, there was a bagboy at the grocer's or the postman might ask if he could do a special delivery.

God, I love sex. I sometimes can't believe I went for three years with just Bobby's missionary wonders, although they're still the best part of my week. He really hits the right spots, and I really love that man.

Life couldn't be better. I had the man I loved, and all the sex a girl could dream of.

When I arrived at the airport, I took a cab to the lawyer's. I wasn't ready to confront Glenda. I wanted my options.

Ralph Thurston was the lawyer that had been recommended. He was in his 60's and liked to say he'd seen it all. Well, he said that until I showed him my videos.

I told him my story. He almost jumped down my throat when I told him about sending the videos to everyone and posting it on Glenda's Facebook page. "Do you know the trouble you've opened yourself up for?" He paced around the room, agitated. "Well, you can't get the emails back, but you've got to fix your wife's Facebook page. Maybe no one's seen it." He shoved me into his chair and had me go into Facebook on his computer. In the end, we deleted my wife's entire Facebook account. Ralph wasn't sure if that would erase any trail, but it seemed the safest course.

"Don't send out anymore videos, don't try for anymore revenge. Bobby, you're just going to get bit in the ass by it. You're already in a weak position. Don't make it worse." Ralph slumped back into his seat after I vacated his chair. He stared at me. "I'll give you a list of things you do want to do."

So, I spent a good part of the day at banks and at my office, splitting our finances and removing her from any policies I could. I was stymied by our HR department. Apparently, you can't take a spouse off your 401k without them signing off on it. Well, that'll be in the court's hands.

After the bank, I went to my sister Sheryl's house. Her kids were off at school, and I knew she would be free. She was shocked when I told her my story and horrified when she learned that our brother was one of those cuckolding me. When I told her that Ralph had advised me to have a witness when confronting Glenda, she agreed to come with me. I probably wouldn't have even gone home except I'd been living out of a suitcase that now smelled suspiciously like bourbon. I guess I am a sloppy drunk, in that I splashed the bourbon the night before over most of my stuff.

When we pulled up in front of my house, Jose and Luis were trimming the lawn. I guess that it wasn't his wife's Facebook I'd sent the video to. I picked up their rake and threw it at them. "Get the fuck out of here," I yelled at them. "If I ever see you here again, I'll kill you!"

They were in their truck and headed down the block before I finished my threat. I saw that I now owned some yard tools. They'd left them behind in their haste, and if they valued their lives, they wouldn't be back for them.

Glenda was at the door, looking at me with red rimmed eyes. I guess either she'd been on her Facebook page, or her parents had told her about the video I'd sent them. "Bobby," she said, "I'm so sorry! It doesn't mean anything...."

"Shut up, you whore!" my sister shouted at her. I guess the neighbors were going to get a blast of drama on my front yard. "His brother? You fucked our brother, and you don't think that means anything? Are you delusional or have you taken so much stuff up your ass that your head fits up there now?"

Inappropriately, that struck me funny, and I sat down on my front steps, laughing. I was suddenly exhausted by the events of the last two days. My laughter morphed into a sob. I got myself under control. I didn't want to be seen weeping on my doorstep.

My neighbor's wife looked over the fence, but ducked away when my sister saw her and started shouting, "And your two sons should be ashamed..." My sister stopped when the woman disappeared. I guess she didn't see any point in continuing.

I got up and when into the house to pack. Glenda followed me with Sheryl behind her. Glenda was wringing her hands, repeating, "Please, Bobby. Please, I love you."

Sheryl whacked the back of her head, saying, "Shut up, slut!" Glenda stood in our bedroom doorway, glumly watching me pack. I picked up our wedding photo off the dresser, looked at it, and then at Glenda. I smashed the photo on the corner of the dresser, letting the glass and broken frame fall to the floor. Glenda wailed in pain.

I had my sister start filling another suitcase with the contents of my dresser drawers as I lugged the first two cases down to her car. My wife went to follow me, but I savagely snarled at her, "Stay the fuck out of my way." She collapsed by the bedroom door while I headed downstairs.

When I returned upstairs, Glenda was still on the floor. She looked at me pleadingly, repeating again that it meant nothing. "I just missed sex so much, Bobby."

Something burst in me. She missed sex? She was the limiting factor to it all. I screamed and raised my fist, rushing towards her. I've never hit a woman; I don't know if I would have hit her, but it would have been a close call.

But I found my arm caught by my sister, who then pulled me into a firm hug. "Don't, Bobby. She's not worth it. She's a whore. Just leave her."

Glenda wailed again. I felt like I had no love or pity left for her. "Be out of the house by next Tuesday. I'm telling the landlord that we're done. I'll move out my stuff this week. Move yours or I'll trash it, like I will our wedding photos."

I took the rest of my clothes and luggage that we'd packed down to the car. Before we drove away, I knocked on my neighbor's door. She didn't answer so I shouted out, "Did you like the video? I'm thinking of taking it down to the college and showing the dean!"

I could hear yelling come from the house as I got into the car and my sister pulled away.

I slumped against the door, feeling even more exhausted. Sheryl looked over at me, and asked the question that I couldn't yet answer:

"What about Doug?"