Screwme

So loud were my passion cries I never heard my wife Kate enter through the apartment door. She was home three hours' early.

I was lying on my belly in the center of our queen-sized bed on top of stacked pillows with my ass in the air and my legs spread apart. The Park Masseur, as he would come to be known (PM for short), was topping me. With each thrust of his thick cock I let out a cry, and with nearly every thrust came his accompanying slur: "Faggot!" "Like it faggot?" "You my girl?" "My bitch?" "Take it, faggot!" Etc.

Which, considering that it was HE who came on to ME in the park that first day, was just a little hypocritical. Don't you think?

The first sign of trouble was when he stopped his furious motion in me. Then I heard him say, distantly, and in his lilting voice (when he wasn't shouting out slurs, that is): "Oh hi there."

Next, his cock popped out of my dilated hole.

I wrenched my head around and found Kate, my beautiful, 28 year-old wife, standing one step inside the bedroom, arms folded tightly across her B-cups, purse hanging from a shoulder. And then it hit me. Kate taught art at a nearby public school. She'd mentioned it to me at the beginning of the week. Friday was a half day! ("Let's go out and do something fun!" she'd said enthusiastically at the time.)

Given the same-sex spectacle on her bed, Kate's expression was surprisingly neutral. She said: "So this is what you do while I'm hard at work all day." It was not a question. And not that I would term teaching art to elementary school kids, even in Brooklyn, "hard work."

Then she turned heel and walked out. By the time I'd extricated myself from the grinning (What's so funny!) PM's body, and run to the apartment livingroom, aware all the while of my flaccid little bobbing dick, the door had slammed in my face. Instinctively, this being Brooklyn, I locked it. Well, I couldn't very well run down the stairs after her could I? I was naked!

As soon as I'd pushed the still-grinning PM out the door ("Do you want to finish?" "NO!") I texted Kate, asking, begging her to come back. "I can explain!" I promised. Though what I would be explaining, beyond the obvious, beat me.

To take the edge off, the edge of cheating on my lovely young wife with another man, I'd had a couple a beers late morning, before he arrived. Now I had a couple more. This didn't make a dent so I threw on some clothes, my butt cheeks still slick with lube, and headed to the corner bodega for a 12-pack. Maybe that would do it.

I lay on the couch in a drunken stupor when, around dinnertime, I heard Kate's key in the lock. I jumped up. I'd never changed the bedsheets!

It was there in the tainted bedroom, in mid-change, that Kate found me. Her arms were crossed again.

"What, you just finished with him?"

"No! I...I flugot," was how the beer-slurred word came out, at least to my ears.

"Get out of my bedroom," Kate demanded, her expression no longer neutral.

"Baby, durling, PUL-EEZE!"

"Get off your knees. It's unbecoming. And get out of my sight. You sleep on the couch from now on. Out!" she pointed. "You prick! You little-"

And for the second time in less than six hours a door slammed in my face. By Kate's hand. At least the bathroom was still accessible. Once again I fell to my knees. This time to do my pleading to white porcelain. Twelve beers on an empty stomach? And the specter of divorce looming? The result was, shall we say, predictable. I flushed to drown out the retching. Followed by my uncontrollable weeping.

A weekend of absolute frigid silence ensued. Kate was gone most of the time. Her parents'? Her sister's place? A boyfriend's...? I alternated between drinking at a neighborhood bar and drinking in the empty apartment. Sometimes, deep into my cups, I would go in the bedroom (Verboten!), open Kate's chest of drawers and take out a pair of her panties. Sometimes I would press them to my face and smell them (Woolite), sometimes I would weep into them. And sometimes, I admit, I would rub them over my increasingly needy cock. Careful, I might add, to stop short of leaving any telltale stains.

Meanwhile, adding to my misery, I kept getting texts from the PM. "You ok?" "Want to get together?" "She leaving you?" "Can i cum over?" "Need a place tostay [sic]?"

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!...Leave me alone! It got to the point where I almost blocked his number on my iPhone. Though I did still sometimes lie in the dark, on my new three-foot wide bed, which was a foot too short for my long body, and fantasize about taking his cock inside me again. And again, and again. My fantasies alternated between bottoming for the PM and being a good, loyal husband and topping my beautiful wife, either vaginally or anally, and leading her, either way, to great screaming-from-the-mountaintops orgasm. Something, actually, I'd never yet managed in our REAL sex lives. And which had been a point of contention for some time now.

Sometimes it's just a lot easier being a bottom. Spread your cheeks and give and get pleasure. Simple. Easy. No expectations to fulfill aside from a willing hole...

Where was I? Kitchen towels. Fortunately there were many of them. Hanging from the gas stove's horizontal door handle. I would get to that frantic point, either fucking or being fucked in my fantasies, run to the kitchen in the dark and, just making it, or maybe not quite, shoot my near-nightly load into a towel. Then wash it out in the sink, sometimes also after wiping the floor, and hang it out to dry, which it would be by morning.

There were distinct maturbatory advantages to being exiled to the livingroom. Kate, meanwhile, self-exiled in our bedroom, emphasis on OUR, was none the wiser. Although she probably suspected I was masturbating (What did she expect!). As I in turn suspected of her and her slender fingers.

Over two weeks of this passive-aggressive nonsense went by. Then one day-at work (I work at home)-I received this heart-lifting text: "want to talk tonight?"

"YES!" my reply. Though as the day wore on, and the initial elation wore off, I began to wonder what "talk" might mean. Instead of healing, and reconciliation, it could just as easily portend...separation? Divorce? The End? I shuddered. I cried a little.

I did what I should have done the first day after and brought home, at great expense, two dozen long-stemmed roses. With an attached card professing, in turns, my absolute love and my apologies for having cheated.

Kate read the card, said "Thanks" (Encouraging sign!), and then tossed it aside, dismissively. She was seated at the little dining table off the kitchen, still dressed in a skirt and blouse from work. Her thighs were crossed. I lusted after them. I took a padded vinyl seat opposite her. It was as if the eighty dollars in red roses wasn't even there.

"So what do you have to say for yourself?" she said. That neutral, unreadable expression again.

I pointed, limply, at the belated roses. "I..."

"How long has this been going on?"

"With the...?" Now I was pointing, vaguely, in the direction of the bedroom. Or maybe its west-facing windows. And the distant skyscrapers. Or the nearly hidden park...

"This was the first time," I claimed, eventually.

"He wasn't wearing a condom."

"No. But usually he does. I don't know what..." I felt like a wild animal that had just fallen into a trap. Or a chess player who has been checkmated on the second move.

"You just said it was the first time."

"It was," sweat beading my brow. Already.

"'Usually' implies more than once. In fact-"

"I'm sorry. The second time. The first time-"

"Implies," she continued, "a lot more than one or two times."

My shoulders were hunched up, defensively. I felt like I had no neck. I let out a sharp exhale. Trapped.

"It was our, like, fifth time. From the first time."

"So six times?"

"Something like that."

"More?"

"I don't know, Katlyn. I wasn't keeping track."

"Don't get snippy with me," she said, unconsciously mimicking George W. Bush. And adding: "You little unfaithful prick. And I do mean little."

"I'm sorry," I apologized. Though for which infraction remained ambiguous. "I didn't mean...Every other time he's worn a condom, OK? I swear it. I don't know what happened last time. Wasn't even aware of it..."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Of course not!"

"How did you meet him?"

A lengthy pause. "In the park. I was taking a break one morning...a couple of months ago I guess..."

"From all your hard work?"

Kate never tired of not letting me forget I worked from home, as a graphic designer, while she did the 7:30 to 3:30 routine Monday through Friday (She got two months off in the summer!) at a PS in a semi-dangerous neighborhood. My contribution? Two thousand a month in a very good month. No question she was the bread-winner. I, well, in her eyes I was the stay-at-home slacker. The house-husband.

I sighed again. "Anyway, I was taking a break, taking a walk through the park one day and I cross paths with this guy, we exchanges glances, that's it, then, when he's like six feet behind me he calls back...'Hey, would you like a massage?' My first reaction is to laugh. Then I'm thinking, I don't know, why not? Don't ask me why I thought this would be a good idea, or why I was interested..."

"Cause you're gay?"

"I'm not!"

"Bi then. Big difference," Kate said, with a shake of her mane of dark-brown hair. Hair I loved to brush, while I sat behind her on the bed, with a pokey little hard on she had no interest in.

"So we came back here...it was around noon, and he said, 'Want to get naked?', and I thought, OK! And we both undressed and I got on the bed on my belly and he got on top of me and started out massaging me with his hands..."

"He's not very attractive, by the way..."

"And then he starts massaging me with his penis. You know, the way I do you sometimes? He's a little weird, yeah. But I've always wondered how that would feel. I mean, to be on the receiving end. And he works his way down from, like, my neck to my ass, then he says: 'You ever been fucked?' And I say only with a dildo, by my wife. And he says, 'Want the real thing?' And I say-

"So this is all my fault?"

"No! No, darling. I was just..." Kate had leaned back in her chair.

"Just like it's my fault you started dressing in my panties. Which, by the way, you're no longer allowed to do. Buy your own fucking panties from now on!"

"Dear..."

"I stick my dildo up your ass ONE TIME and now it's the cause of all our problems."

"It was more than one time."

"Ten times. Who cares? The biggest mistake of my married life."

Kate had recrossed her arms. Even tighter. Her head was thrust out to the side, in profile to me.

"All I can tell you is," I said, "it led to some crazy urges..."

"I'll say," head still off to the side. Her mutter was barely audible: "Pantywaist..."

"I'm not blaming you, Kate. It's all on me. I apologize for the thousandth time. I won't do it again. You're the one love of my life. The rest is all bullshit. I mean it. It's meaningless. I...I want to have a child with you some day."

"Ha!"

"I..."

My wife of seven years held up a silencing hand.

"Enough. Enough excuses," she said.

"I'm not-"

"Shut up!"

I slumped in my chair. I had no ammunition left. Hell, I didn't have any to begin with. I had a beautiful, sexy wife and I'd cheated on her with some homely guy I'd met in the park. Cheated on her multiple times. It was all on me. Forget the dildo. Kate was guileless in all this. I needed to repent. But how? HOW?

Kate lowered her hand. "I need 24 hours to think through all this. How I need to punish you. And where our relationship's headed for the future. Let's meet back here exactly this time tomorrow so we can discuss my demands. Understood?"

It sounded like a military assignment. Like I was in the army and she was my superior officer. "Y-Yes," I finally stuttered.

"Dear would be nice."

"Hunh?"

"'Yes, dear.' That would be a good start."

I had a hard on. This was beginning to sound promising. Halfway hopeful. "Yes, dear," I parroted.

"Good." Then she got up and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

This may be a two-towel night, I thought, glancing toward the kitchen, and the stove. I felt somewhat elated.

*

Kate had a list in front of her. Hand-written, in artist's crayon, it appeared. Aside from that she was sitting at the table naked, thighs again crossed. She had my number, and she knew it, and now it was her opportunity, her prerogative, to be manipulative. To play the puppet-master. She knew the sight of her naked body, kept from me for over two weeks now, would drive me crazy. Turn me to putty. In her hands...

I was helpless in front of her pale, beautiful body. Her sweet little tits.

"One," she read. "And this is going to surprise you. I couldn't care less what you do behind my back when I'm not at home. Want to get screwed by some guy? Go for it. This is my condition: just make sure he wears a condom. This is common sense. Understand?"

"Yes."

Again she had to remind me, reproach me.

"What?"

"Yes. Dear."

"Two," she continued. "Whenever we have sex, if we ever have sex again, you wear a condom."

"What? WHY?"

"I'm not having some guy who's potentially getting barebacked by another guy sticking his bare dick in my womb. Got it?"

"He never-"

"I SAW him. Got it? You wear a condom. No exceptions. They're in the bedside drawer. You're lucky if I ever let you in me again anyway, you faggot."

I bowed my head. "Yes, dear." She was beginning to sound like the PM...

"Three. Two can play at this game. I just bought a membership to the dating site Screwme. I'll be dating other guys, too. Good, simple, uncomplicated sex. Maybe I'll finally find out what's like to have a screaming orgasm. I may be having guys over in the afternoon, after work? Or in the evening? Or on weekends? Whatever, I expect you to make yourself scarce. I give you fair warning then you vacate the apartment for a few hours. Got it?"

"Yes, dear."

"Any objections?"

"No, dear. Thank you."

"Good. Four. You're already kind of househusband, yes? You're home all day while I'm at work. From now on you do all the housecleaning. I mean ALL of it. Wash the dishes every night. Laundry once a week. Oh, and my panties and delicates? They get hand-washed. In Woolite."

"I understand."

"Dust, mop. Clean the toilet at least once a week...I don't want to have lift a hand, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"This will give me more time to...," playfully twirling a strand of her dark hair (It was nice to see her smile!), "...play. Know what I mean?"

I did. Sort of. "Yes, uh, ma'am."

"Five. This falls under the classification of humiliation," she said, looking up from her dark-framed readers. Which for some reason made my naked wife look even sexier. "When you clean house I want you to wear the pink maid's outfit I've ordered for you. It should be here in a few days. In summer I'm OK if you wear pink sissy panties. But they must be pink-and they must have ruffles. I've ordered these for you as well. I want our nosy fucking neighbors across the way to be able to see my husband prancing about in his little outfits, cleaning house."

"OK. Dear," I quickly added.

"Also-six-any pathetic little money you make from your graphic design business you turn over to me. We have one bank account from now on and it's in my name. You get a weekly allowance. Did I mention grocery shopping? You'll be doing all of that too, by the way."

"I already do the grocery shopping."

"Good. Then you'll be prepared for that. From now on I control the purse strings in our marriage. I wear the pants, you wear the panties. Well, we both do, but..."

"I'm fine with all of this," I said enthusiastically.

"Like you have a choice?"

"No but I-"

"What!"

"No ma'am."

"Better. Just like my bratty little schoolkids. You know how often I get hit on at the school?"

"By the kids?"

"They're children! No, by the other teachers. Male AND female. I could get laid every day of the week if I wanted."

Not by the females, I thought.

"Lick me." In an instant Kate had unlocked her legs, scooted back a little on her chair and planted her heels on the vinyl corners. "Get on your knees and lick me, you pussy fuck."

I complied, eagerly. It had been over two weeks. I lusted after her body. Her cunt-lips. Her juices. Her sweet asshole...

We soon fell to the floor. I lay prone on my back as Kate mounted my face and rubbed her wet pussy over my face. She smothered me. I was grateful when she finally lifted off. My open mouth gasped air.

Just then she unleashed a torrid stream of urine into it. It filled my mouth. I spit it out. More followed. It splattered off my face, off my neck and chest. It was all over me, all over the floor. All over her calves. It dripped from her thighs' undersides.

Bladder emptied, she rose. Her bare feet tracked piss from the diningroom, across the livingroom to the bathroom. She turned back.

"Number seven. Not only do you clean my toilet, anytime I want you'll BE my toilet. Piss, shit, whatever I want to unload on you. Understand? You cheating prick?" She pointed where I lay, drenched in her fast-cooling, acrid urine.

"Now clean up this mess!"