No we don't have to talk

"We have to talk." My wife sat down opposite me, with an aggressive expression on her face.

"No," I shook my head. "We really don't. But if we must, let me get a beer, since experience tells me I'll be listening more than talking." As she gave a snort of disgust, I walked out to the kitchen to fetch a beer. "Do you want one," I asked as I grabbed two for me. It was likely to be a long discussion.

"NO! Would you get out here, please?" I knew my wife; she had her ducks lined up and she was afraid if I took too long, she'd screw up the delivery. As I sat down, she began, "We haven't had sex in over two years, and..."

"Wait! That was your choice, not mine." I took a sip of beer, relishing the cool liquid.

"It was not my choice! You couldn't keep it up and you stopped trying, you limp fucking dick!" My wife was free with her endearments.

"It was that smell you developed and refused to deal with, that took away my erections." I shook my head. "I get plenty of erections when you're not around."

She huffed. "Yeah, right. Like I believe that." She sat up straight and picked at a piece of lint on her dress. "Well, I want to have sex, so Friday, I'm going on a date. And if all goes well, I won't be back until Sunday night."

"Good." I sipped some more beer.

"Good! That's all you can say, Good?", she sneered. "You are a fucking limp dick."

"Delilah, I don't care what you do. I have no interest in you, at all, anymore. I've done what I can, and you've made it clear that you want nothing to do with me." More beer. Maybe I'd get drunk. Something good should come of this discussion.

"What? You've done what you can? What have you done? You've done nothing but roll over and go to sleep. You're worthless in bed." Her expression now was pure hate.

"You know, I asked you to take care of that atrocious smell, but you..." I began.

"I went to the gynecologist! She said that there was no smell. You're just making it up." She accused me.

"I'm making it up?" I said quietly. "I can tell when you've peed in the toilet. The room smells of you. And if you fluff the sheets at night, I get overwhelmed by the gust of rot that floats out from your crotch."

She glared at me. I prepared myself for her slap, but it never came. Instead, she gave me a mean smile and said, "You're a pathetic, impotent little man. I don't know why I ever married you."

"I don't know, probably my money." I picked at the beer bottle's label. "And you know I've tried. Last year, I went to my doctor and got that prescription for sildenafil. We went to bed, and I held my breath, but what did you do."

"I rubbed your wiener until it was mostly hard and then I spread my legs for you." She regarded her nails.

"Yeah, you spread your knees 6 inches apart and claimed your hips hurt if you spread any further. And you refused to change position, just laid there on your back." I had to calm myself. I was determined not to get emotional. "I had to push against your fat thighs and could barely get the tip of my dick in before I ran out of leverage. I was so disgusted by the whole experience that even the chemicals couldn't keep me erect." I looked at her, unable to keep the hurt and the remembrance of the humiliation out of my eyes. "And you laid there and laughed, before rolling away and going to sleep. I was left with nothing but that smell."

"Yeah, well, whatever. I intend to get laid by a real man, so I'm going away this weekend." She gave me a smirk, daring me to argue.

"I don't care. I have no interest in you." I finished the first beer and popped the cap of the next one. "You know, there's a game I play now. If I wake up in the morning and I'm holding on to you, unless I feel a nipple, I make bets with myself whether I'm holding a boob or a roll of fat." I chuckled. "I find that I really can't tell the difference.

"So, believe me, I have no interest in your body. The smell, the thigh fat, and the rolls of lard are just so, so very, unappealing." I took a big swig. "So, I have little or no interest in what you do with your body. I hope if you decide to cheat, you find someone with a 14-inch cock that can penetrate that fat. And I hope it's thick and black."

She sat staring at me for a moment, thoughtfully. "That would excite you, wouldn't it." It was her turn to look at me with repulsion. "I always knew you were a cuckold at heart. You want to come and watch," she snickered.

I looked up sheepishly. "Pictures would be nice?" I pleaded.

She laughed. "Pathetic." She got up and left. We didn't speak again that week.

Friday night at 10 o'clock, my phone dinged. It was a picture of my wife, naked with a long, dark dick in her mouth. An hour later, the first video came through. I thought it strange that any man with the muscle definition my wife's lover had would be interested in the tub of lard he was bouncing on. I heard my wife scream out to me, "See how a real man does it!"

Saturday morning, another video. The complete act this time, her choking on him, him licking on her, then him pounding into her, doggy style. Bitch wouldn't get off her back for me, but here she was on hands and knees, tits swinging, fat flopping, pushing back on his dick.

Then I saw a look of surprise on her face as the man slapped a handful of lube into her ass crack. With a panicked look, she insisted that her rectum was off limits. He laughed and her eyes bugged. I laughed as I realized his fingers were shoved up her ass, spreading the lube. As she struggled, he used his weight to hold her down and maneuvered himself into position. Her scream was music to my ears as he pushed forward. She squirmed and protested, until suddenly she went quiet and began shoving back on him. Her expression changed, and I could see she was being racked by an orgasm. When he finally shoved forward and went rigid with his own climax, they both fell forward onto to the bed.

As Delilah reached forward to turn off the phone camera, she smiled at me contemptuously and said, "See, cuckold. A real man takes what he wants."

That made me think. It was one of the things that I thought made my marriage difficult. I always thought lovemaking should be mutual. I never forced myself on a woman. I always let my partner decide what we'd do and when we'd do it. It was this power that I gave her that allowed my wife to basically treat me like shit for the last 10 years of our marriage.

I stopped looking at the rest of the pictures that came in that day and Sunday. I had seen enough, and it was about as sexy as watching two pigs rutting. All those folds of fat swinging back and forth. Ewww.

Sunday night when she came home, I was sitting in my lounge chair streaming a video. She stood in front of the TV, blocking my view. "Well, cuckold. Are you happy? Did you get off watching a better man fuck me?"

I smiled. "No, dear. It was actually pretty gross. The only good thing about it was I couldn't smell you."

She looked down her nose at me. "You can't fool me. You wanted those pictures. You wanted to see me taken by a better man."

I had paused my movie. I didn't want to lose my place. "No dear, I told you the truth. I didn't care. I could have done without the pictures."

I smiled at her. I gave her my best self-satisfied grin. "But my lawyer loved the pictures. She'd told me that infidelity would be hard to prove without pictures, so I really appreciated you sending them. They'll be so helpful in the divorce."

"Divorce? Infidelity? No, you knew! You gave me permission. You know you did." She was gaping at me, bewildered.

"Ah, no. I expressed an apathy to you. I didn't care what you did. Would you like to hear the recording of our conversation?" I had gotten my beers that day so I would have an opportunity to put my phone on record. My lawyer had also told me that would be helpful.

"Actually, I guess I did lie to you. I did want you to get fucked because it would help me out. Out of this hellhole of a marriage."

I smiled to myself again, as my movie started back up.