The Death of Tammy Janeway Pt. 05

The Death of Tammy Janeway, Pt 5

That's how my marriage got started--Coitus interruptus and a lecture about my "sexual degeneracy".

To say I was astounded would have been a massive understatement.

The next morning Brother Samuelson rolled over on top of me and consummated our marriage. It took him all of ten seconds. Afterward, he popped up, refreshed, and called downstairs for room service.

"How do you like your eggs, Tams?"

I wanted to pee on him. He hadn't even bothered to brush his teeth.

"Soft scrambled, hun." I replied, in my best "healthful pattern of words" voice.

I dragged out of bed up to wash up. By the time I got out of the shower our food had arrived. Before I could sit down and eat, Brother Samuelson mounted me again, without having brushed his teeth, and fucked me wildly for yet another ten seconds. He came before he got his cock all the way in. I'd just washed. He had yet to wash. I don't think he felt comfortable getting into the shower with me, thinking it to be "degeneracy".

Was our food cold by the time we got finished fucking? No. It was not.

I smiled at my husband tenderly, hoping that he was hiding a hajib somewhere and would spring it on me at the conclusion of this nightmare honeymoon.

I loved Donnie. I did. But we were already teetering at the precipice of a cliff, and not just because my husband didn't know how to fuck, but also because he thought he knew what he was doing and he didn't. We hadn't even gotten to the "me on top" part yet. I wasn't sure we would get there.

Maybe we could talk it out. We had a five-hour drive ahead of us. I hit him with the threat.

"Donnie, we gotta talk."

By the time we got to Niagara Falls, I was relatively sure that our marriage was in trouble. Donnie was fixated on the "headship" issue. Our sex life would not suffer any devolutions from the "healthful pattern of sexual relations" acceptable to the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society. When I asked Donnie to show me where this "healthful pattern" was written in doctrinal stone he demurred. It was not written anywhere. Rather, like many Jehovah's Witness rules, it was unspoken. You just had to KNOW.

I asked my husband how he knew what was going on in other people's bedrooms. He told me that he'd sat in on any number of elder's counseling sessions with couples regarding their sex lives. He assured me that doing things my way would lead to such a counseling session with the elders, but that wasn't going to happen because he wasn't going to do things my way. There would be no oral sex, no mutual masturbation, no titty sucking, no titty fucking, no tongue kissing, no reverse cowgirl, nothing that these nasty worldly people do; just straight sex the way God intended, with him on top most of the time. That's the best way, he said. That's the Christian way. And since he was the head of our household that was how we were going to do it. Period. End of story.

He had put his foot down. Jasmine warned me he would. Donnie was on the elder track. He didn't need to be sitting in any elder's counseling sessions as the person in need of counsel or prayer.

Knowing my role, I shut my mouth. That's when I started fantasizing about a big white guy in a hajib whose penis left me burnt and charred below.

You know, if you've ever been in love with someone, truly in love, you never fall out of love with that person. There's always a spot in your heart for him/her. No matter how many infidelities and fist fights and domestic violence arrests and STDs came after falling in love, when you sit down and recall the times of your loves, your heart will still swell. If none of the aforementioned relationship killers ever happened, your heart will swell even more.

None of those relationship killers ever happened with Chad and me. I broke up with him out of concern for him, not because I didn't still love him.

Given the set of circumstances surrounding my first day of marriage (and the day before), Chad rose up in my mind as my savior from a lifetime of "him on top, me on top".

I'd been warned about these doldrums. The reality was something else. In the span of a thirty-six hour marriage, I'd had twenty seconds of sex. I'm not exaggerating. A newlywed couple on a five-hour drive might be expected to stop along the way to suck or fuck. Mr. and Mrs. Samuelson spent the entire five hours arguing about whether the Scriptures sanctioned such behavior. When Mr. and Mrs. Samuelson finally arrived at their hotel in Niagara Falls, Mr. Samuelson claimed fatigue from the trip. He said he needed a nap. Mrs. Samuelson had yet to luxuriate under the pleasure of a single orgasm at the tip of Mr. Samuelson's dick. Mrs. Samuelson sneaked into the bathroom to masturbate while Mr. Samuelson slept, assisted visually by the remembrance of her bachelorette party. When Mr. Samuelson awakened, he tacked another fifteen seconds of sex onto Mrs. Samuelson's store of marital due. Then the new couple went out sightseeing.

Mrs. Samuelson was developing a negative opinion of Watchtower Bible and Tract Society's unspoken rules about marital sex.

OMG! Chad Finneran!!

My old boyfriend was now a bachelorette party dancer. Two nights ago he'd consummated a relationship from almost ten years back. He'd really fucked the living shit out of me. He'd cum all over my face.

By way of contrast, my husband had fucked me three times since we'd been married. Each time he'd ejaculated before his cock was all the way in.

If you're a woman, which of these two scenarios are you masturbating over? I had that open spot in my heart and all.

The thing with being in love is this: you close your heart to one person and open your heart to another. The closed room is always there. You just have to re-open that door. Sometimes there's so much shitty baggage that you can't re-open the door. That doesn't mean the door isn't there.

Donnie's door to my heart was still wide open. I loved him. But his door was accumulating baggage. It's not because he was shitty in bed. I'd expected that much. Sheesh!! He'd never had any pussy!! You can't hold that against a man.

Donnie's baggage was that he didn't seem willing to explore. He didn't want to learn. He had a viewpoint that worked for him but left me bereft. He was using his "headship" as an excuse to leave me wanting. I still wanted my marriage to work. Maybe he was right. Maybe my devotion to my sexual needs kept me from experiencing the true joy of Christianity. Maybe, if I accepted the "him on top, me on top" version of Christianity, my strident sexual longing would wane.

I took a deep breath and tried to see things his way.

It took a couple of weeks but Chad finally called. I'd been dreading this moment.

OK, I'm lying. I was praying he would call. But when he did, I had to pretend that I'd been dreading his call. I'm a woman. Whaddaya want from me?

I charged him up for attending my wedding unexpectedly. I told him how he'd endangered my position with my husband and my religion. He told me that when he found that I was getting married, he agreed to perform at my wedding for free. (This made me feel warm.) I reminded him that we still hadn't had real sex since he hadn't cum inside me. He said he intended to rectify that situation. (This made me feel warmer.) I told him that I was married now and that wasn't going to happen. (I was hoping I was lying about that.) He said "OK!!"

What prospective adulterer gives up that easily? I was disappointed.

I went back to my husband that night and encouraged him to fuck me blind. We'd been married a couple of weeks now. It was Monday. He reminded me that he had to prepare for the Service Meeting on the morrow, but he agreed to service me, if I insisted. He mounted me and churned for about a minute before gracing my pussy with his milk. Then he got up, washed up and spent a couple hours preparing for the Service meeting. By the time he got into bed I was asleep. Every orgasm I'd had for the duration of our marriage so far had come by way of my own hands.

I was still struggling. I'd thought that getting married meant a license to have sex day and night. It would cool my rampant sex drive. That's not what was happening. Getting married now meant I had to deal with someone else's dominance of my sex life.

I'd moved from my cushy suburban townhome to Donnie's inner city hovel. It was in a bad neighborhood. Donnie was a shoe salesman!! I had a nice job. We could afford to live in a better neighborhood. But Brother Samuelson insisted that we live according his income, not mine. He hinted that maybe I should leave my job and join the full time ministry and thus grease his path to an eldership. His hints became ever more apparent. Something in the back of my mind kept screaming "NO FUCKING WAY!!!"

OK, let's take stock. I wasn't getting fucked properly. I lived in the 'hood. My husband's hints that I leave my well-paying job would soon become an edict. Donnie's baggage was piling up.

One day I sat down with my worldly friend Felicia over coffee.

"Felicia, how did you bring together the guys who danced at my bachelorette party?" I opened.

"Why? You feelin' one of them? That big white boy, maybe? Seemed to me like you knew him from somewhere," she replied.

"I did know him. He was my high school boyfriend."

"I knew it! I knew it!! Y'all looked like you'd done the nasty before!!" she laughed.

"We hadn't. That was the first time. But I need to talk with him." I said.

"Why? He give you something? I little package, maybe?"

"No! Nothing like that, Felicia. I just want to talk with him."

"I'll call my contact. She'll call her contact and we'll see if she'll take your call."

"She?" I queried.

"SHE." Felicia confirmed.

A few days later I had a phone number and a name. I called the number and spoke with a woman named Gloria. She refused to give me Chad's phone number, but she did agree to tell me where he was performing that weekend. She said I could get his number directly from him, if he was willing to part with it.

Now my problem was coming up with an excuse to get out of the house late on Friday night. I knew the club closed at 4 a.m. but I didn't want to pay to get in and possibly be seen. I didn't know when Chad would arrive at the club. I didn't know what he was driving. I had to be there when the club closed.

Normally, a woman will try to concuss a man with pussy and then sneak out. If you fuck your man properly, you won't have to worry about him waking up for several hours.

Brother Samuelson was in charge of our sex life. Once he got his nut in there was no telling what might happen next. He might fall asleep. He might go and start reading a Watchtower publication. He was unpredictable. I didn't know how I was going to get out of the house at four a.m. But I knew I was going to do it.

So Friday comes. My husband and I stayed up late watching a basketball game. Then I turned the television to JW dot org. I knew that Donnie would never turn away from this channel. It churns out a litany of JW dogma directly from the Governing Body of the church. Watching this channel is better than downing a whole bottle of Valium.

Predictably, Donnie passed out shortly thereafter. Not even he could withstand a full on late night dose of JW dot org. I slept for an hour and awakened at three. Donnie was snoring. I waited until the last possible minute, then I jetted up. To cover my exit I left Donnie a note explaining that I needed to buy tampons. Urgently. And so I'd be right back.

I drove down to the club where Chad was scheduled to perform and waited for him to exit the building. He's very tall and very white. He's difficult to miss.

He came out and jumped into this shitbox of a Jeep. I dunno why I envisioned him driving a better car. Anyway, I followed him to his home. I noted the address, then I flew home as fast as I could. Donnie was still asleep. I crumpled the tampon mea culpa note and threw it away. I actually stopped at a Walmart and purchased tampons to cover my alibi, just in case my husband awakened.

For the next two months I held on to Chad's address. It was my lifeline in case Brother Samuelson's baggage count exceeded his ability to pay. I had Chad's phone number, too. He'd called me. I saved his CallerID number under some innocuous name like Chandra. If Donnie searched through my phone, I'd tell him that Chandra worked in my office. And then I'd start in with a whole litany of complaints against her. Men hate listening to women whining about people at work. This virtually guaranteed that Donnie would never call Chandra's number.

I went back and re-dedicated myself to my congregation and the preaching work. I wasn't planning on contacting Chad. He'd already warned me that he intended to fuck me on sight. Just the knowledge that he was still interested kept me warm through the doldrums of my marriage which, so far, only consisted of "him on top". It wasn't as bad as all that.

What am I saying? Yes, it was. It was horrible. Donnie didn't believe in foreplay. His dick was long and skinny. He always came too soon. He didn't seem to care one whit about my needs. His whole understanding of women came by way of Watchtower publications and he followed these to the letter. "Women are emotional; men are analytical". When I voiced my opinions about variety in our sex life he listened patiently and came to the manly decision that "him on top" was the best way for me to be happy. He said I just needed to re-adjust my thinking on the matter.

We could kiss for as long as it took for him to mount me--no tongues. Have you ever spent five or ten minutes doing closed mouth kissing? It's no picnic. It's like a never-ending fist pound. Also, Donnie didn't know how to fondle a titty or a pussy. He was opposed to handjobs and fellatio. Once he got his dick inside me he just went at it like a jackhammer for about a minute. There was no roll or nuance, just thrust. As soon as he was finished he jumped up to wash. He didn't seem to like the feel of his own semen on his penis. I could go on and on.

Two months into my marriage and I was ready to explode.

One day I drove to the mall and purchased a trench coat and some boots. Then I drove to a gas station around the corner from Chad's home. I stripped out of my clothing completely and donned the boots and the coat. I took a razor and shaved my pussy bald. It was cold outside. A trench coat does little to dissuade a cold Detroit wind from scooting up into a naked, shaven coochie.

I drove to Chad's home and rang the doorbell. When he opened the door I barged past him into the warmth of his living room. He was understandably confused...until I opened my coat.

Chad was wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts when I entered. Seeing me fully naked elicited a burgeoning erection. His cock poked free from the opening in his shorts as he stood there drinking in my nakedness. It hardened fully without either of us touching it. Deep in my soul I felt gratified. Justified, even. When we'd fucked at the club, Chad was working. He was doing his job. This erection was lust, not business. I expected him to cum quickly. I'd be disappointed if he didn't. After that we were going to make love.

I took his hand and led him to his bedroom. I'd never visited him before; finding his bedroom on the first try was sheer luck. Without saying anything, I shed my boots and my trench coat. I lay down in his bed and opened my legs. As sick as I was of "him on top", I wanted Chad to mount me in this manner. I needed to look him in his eyes. I wanted to feel the pain of his thick penis parting my pussy lips. I wanted the exquisite pressure of Chad driving his penis into me, inch by inch. I wanted to experience the bright lights and the tit sizzle all over again.

It happened just so. Chad came quickly, as did I. It was the first time I'd cum without masturbating since my bachelorette party. As the flailing winds of completion abated, Chad and I kissed opulently for an eternity, just as we had in high school, with flickering tongues and wandering hands. He sucked my tits as he fingered me. I took his wettened penis and jacked it erect ever so slowly. Then I went down and sucked another fountain of semen from his nuts. Nothing ever tasted so good. Chad returned the favor in triplicate. I came explosively under the shining white lights of his cunnilingus.

But what I really enjoyed was Chad's willingness to stretch my body into gymnast's positions. He mounted me doggystyle and extracted gimongous orgasms from both holes. We did a standing sixty-nine and both of us came. He positioned me on my shoulder blades, pussy in the air, and fucked me reverse cowboy. We got some "me on top" in; he even allowed me to go Amazon on him. This last was truly the best fuck of my life. I felt like a man fucking a woman. I came and came and came. I came so often it was painful. Chad's dick was never so scintillating as when I controlled the depth and timing of his thrusts.

We licked and fucked and sucked. Each time I thought "This is the last one" his penis rose up like a punch-drunk fighter. Chad would smile wearily and insert it into a different orifice than before. When at last his penis gasped he was pounding me anally.

"Tams, I don't think I can cum again," he panted, before reluctantly easing himself free of my bottom.

His cock was still erect, but I understood his torpor. There was no more ejaculate to be had, and for that I was thankful. My pussy and my ass were burnt raw. Scorched! I didn't think I could stomach another dollop of jizz. I was full. My cheeks, my tits, my pubic mound and my ass crack were all dripping with semen. Unlike my husband, I didn't feel compelled to get up and wash after every orgasm.

Chad and I lay in each other's arms as the heat from our lovemaking dissipated. With dissipation came the realization of our situation. We were now adulterers. One of us was married. One of us couldn't stay the night.

Something needed to be said. I kept procrastinating. Finally, I summoned the courage.

"Did you find out what you needed to find out?" I whispered.

"My dick did," he chuckled.

"Do we need to do this again?" I whispered.

I was telling him that this was a one-time deal. I wasn't interested in having an affair. I just needed...well...I just needed to get fucked. Let's not sugarcoat it.

Chad tried to talk me out of it. He'd thought this was the beginning of something else.

No. It was not.

I had a husband and a church. I loved both. I couldn't help but serve my fleshly needs from time to time. Still, I didn't want to sacrifice my world for the sake of my pussy.

Deep in my heart I knew that Chad and I were going to do this again. It was inevitable, given my history. I didn't want Chad to know that. But I also didn't want to give him hope. I wasn't going to leave my husband.

I lay in my lover's arms until it was time to leave. With a heavy heart I finally got up to shower. My clothes were still in my car. I'd have to leave naked under a trench coat, the way I'd come in. While I washed, Chad tried to convince me to stay. I could see he was still in love with me. In truth, the door in my heart was still open to him. I didn't want to admit it, and I didn't want him to know it.

Finally, Chad played his trump card. He asked after my Church and my devotion. This caused me to pause. Looking back, this pause was the cause of my death. I should have given Chad a perfunctory answer and returned to "him on top" (which was my smirking name for my husband). I agreed to meet with Chad at a local Starbucks to discuss the matter. I should not have.

So I met with Chad a week later at Starbucks. He brought his Bible with him, but we didn't spend any time discussing Scripture. Chad started with a tale about "not being able to get it up" at a bachelorette party the previous Friday. He had me dying with laughter. The women who'd come to be serviced in lieu of a wedding weren't just disappointed, they were angry. They called my former boyfriend every name in the book. They'd castigated his flaccid penis as a racial trait. Chad blamed me for his disability, not in a serious way, of course, but in a way that implied my pussy was so ethereal he couldn't get it up for other women. I knew this was bullshit, but I was flattered nonetheless. He'd had two full days to recover from our little tryst. I'd checked him out upon arrival and his dick was already hard. I hadn't touched it but could see it bulging in his jeans. Secretly, this made me feel good. I remembered how his cock rose from his boxer shorts the previous week. My pussy flared.