Eddie08
02-10-2009, 5:48 PM
I took my wife to a karate tournament this past week. You know--just to get out of the house. The winter weather had been crappy, and it was our first chance to get out in a while.
I didn't have a lot of money, but I had to take her somewhere. We'd kind of grown on each other's nerves lately. Cabin fever. I'd seen the ad for the tournament in the local newspaper and said, what the hell?
It was one of those events where various schools show up in order to show off. I liked it. My wife watched blankly, disinterested the entire time.
During the car ride home, a sleepy Sunday afternoon, she told me she could appreciate all the moves and the hard work, but that the martial arts just didn't interest her. You see, she and I are from totally different backgrounds. She's a wealthy man's daughter. She grew up with horses, had the luxury of an expensive education. I was more like some half-immigrant from the other side of the tracks. How I'd landed her, she certaintly didn't know. She has an air about her that reminds me of that fact every day.
We got home and for some insane reason -- maybe bittnerness -- I felt horny toward her. This is certainly not an every day occurrence, as I'm sure most married men can sympathize. But Sunday, I wanted it. I wanted to dive low on her, smell her crotch. Wrestle her down and drive it home, long and hard.
I approached her on the couch, wrapped my arms around her waist.
"Hi yah!" she said and kicked me with her slippered foot, then a laugh.
I totally wasn't expecting it, and she caught me as I was kneeling down to get on top of her. My knees gave and I collapsed to the carpet. On my back.
Before I could get up, she got off the couch and took a step on my chest. Fortunately, she'd taken off those muddy boots she'd worn to the karate tournament, but still it hurt. She's a few pounds more than she should be, though still very attractive, and I can still now feel the spot on my sternum where she's applied her full weight.
I rolled toward her legs. Rough foreplay, you want? I thought. I'll give you ...
She kicked me right in the face. Oh, that was it.
She ran and I chased her into the bedroom.
***
She was sitting on the bed waiting for me, her legs dangling off the side. She wore a light-blue pullover sweatshirt, tight black sweatpants, colorful socks under her slippers. She gave a challenging tilt of her head. "Get out of my room, I'm changing."
I chuckled and moved toward her. The truth of the matter: we'd been arguing a lot lately, very real, heated arguments. I was still horny, but I wanted to make her pay for her arrogance. How she always made me share the dishwashing duties, how she stayed home and worked out while I went to work every day. I paid all of the bills. And still she complained. And honest to god, she has this thing about her feet. She whines that they always hurt. She knows I have a foot fetish so sometimes while I'm sitting on the couch, she puts her legs on my lap and tells me it's time to massage her feet. She really is spoiled; I know that.
Like a ram, I lowered my head and connected with her chest. It drove her backwards onto the mattress her legs coming up. I kissed her mouth, her neck, while my penis stiffened.
Her hand came up to my face, pushed. It didn't deter me long. I slid slightly toward the edge of the bed, my weight still upon her and starting tugging off her sweatpants.
She kicked me in the face again--the bitch. Cracked my lip right open. We'd been through similar rough foreplay before, but these were hard shots she was hitting me with now. Like she was trying to make a point. Maybe she'd subconsciously learned something while watching the karate tournament. I touched my split lip, looked at the smear of red wetness on my fingertip.
"YOU. FUCKING. BITCH!" I said and tackled her again. She kneed me hard in the groin, and rolled on top of me, pinning my wrists, her long brown hair hanging down, tickling my face.
"You got nothing," she whispered and gave that challenging tilt of her jaw. I wanted to punch her right in the fucking mouth. Impossible at the moment--so I slid my hands toward my own hips, right out from under her grasp, grabbed her kneecaps, and flipped her so I was on top again.
"Ha!" I said and tried to kiss her with my bloody lip. She coughed and spat, right in my face. That was crossing the line. Most men don't like it when it comes to bodily fluids. That's where the primal turn-on of sexual conflict turns to disgust. I got off her, pissed as all hell, and went to the bedroom mirror. I stared at my bleeding lip, my wife's sputum just above it, in that small flap of skin just above my upper lip. I brought my fingers together and got most of it off. Stared at my thumb and forefinger. "You're dead now," I yelled.
In the mirror I saw her move behind me and turned quickly. Too late. Her slap caught me right across the left side of my face. Stinging pain. I chuckled again, incredulous of her behavior ... then lunged forward and seized her shoulders. Her knee came up, hard into my groin. I dropped to my knees.
"Try fucking me now, asshole," she said.
Shit it hurt. It's best I not describe the feeling in my groin at that moment. I trust many of you know it.
She gripped me by the hair and pulled, leading me to the bed. I tried to get her wrist, but she gave a hard yank and I fell forward and hit my head on the bedframe. A clanging sound, and my ears were ringing. I toppled onto my back, dazed, looking up, my forehead partially covered by the mattress apron.
My wife sat down above me and starting beating her slippered feet down on my chest, her thighs flapping in my line of sight. Tap, tap, tap, tap, on my chest; me too stunned, too overwhelmed to raise a hand against her.
Above me she shifted, and then the soles of her slippers began to smack my face, my nose, my cracked lip.
"Ugh, look at this!" she said after ten or twelve shots upon my face. "You got blood on my slippers. Get it off!"
I shook my head and lunged to my feet. Enough of this--and I rushed her. Her legs spread wide and then closed again, around my neck. She squeezed with her powerful calf muscles. Damn, that gym membership I was paying for was paying off ... for her. My hands found her ankles and I tried to pry her open like a clam. It worked ... for a moment, at least ... and I started to pull free.
Her slippered feet came together, her toes pointed inward, and she seized me behind the ears and pulled me forward, deeper into her trap. This time her thighs tightened around my throat, and she seized my hair again and turned my head so I was forced to stare at her legs, her feet.
"I don't want to look at your ugly face," she explained, and squeezed, clenching her feet together to really cinch the knot.
Her inner thighs were warm, suffocating. I tried to struggle and she tightened her scissorhold. Stars sparkled in the periphery of my vision.
"Take off my slippers," she demanded.
***
I didn't have a lot of money, but I had to take her somewhere. We'd kind of grown on each other's nerves lately. Cabin fever. I'd seen the ad for the tournament in the local newspaper and said, what the hell?
It was one of those events where various schools show up in order to show off. I liked it. My wife watched blankly, disinterested the entire time.
During the car ride home, a sleepy Sunday afternoon, she told me she could appreciate all the moves and the hard work, but that the martial arts just didn't interest her. You see, she and I are from totally different backgrounds. She's a wealthy man's daughter. She grew up with horses, had the luxury of an expensive education. I was more like some half-immigrant from the other side of the tracks. How I'd landed her, she certaintly didn't know. She has an air about her that reminds me of that fact every day.
We got home and for some insane reason -- maybe bittnerness -- I felt horny toward her. This is certainly not an every day occurrence, as I'm sure most married men can sympathize. But Sunday, I wanted it. I wanted to dive low on her, smell her crotch. Wrestle her down and drive it home, long and hard.
I approached her on the couch, wrapped my arms around her waist.
"Hi yah!" she said and kicked me with her slippered foot, then a laugh.
I totally wasn't expecting it, and she caught me as I was kneeling down to get on top of her. My knees gave and I collapsed to the carpet. On my back.
Before I could get up, she got off the couch and took a step on my chest. Fortunately, she'd taken off those muddy boots she'd worn to the karate tournament, but still it hurt. She's a few pounds more than she should be, though still very attractive, and I can still now feel the spot on my sternum where she's applied her full weight.
I rolled toward her legs. Rough foreplay, you want? I thought. I'll give you ...
She kicked me right in the face. Oh, that was it.
She ran and I chased her into the bedroom.
***
She was sitting on the bed waiting for me, her legs dangling off the side. She wore a light-blue pullover sweatshirt, tight black sweatpants, colorful socks under her slippers. She gave a challenging tilt of her head. "Get out of my room, I'm changing."
I chuckled and moved toward her. The truth of the matter: we'd been arguing a lot lately, very real, heated arguments. I was still horny, but I wanted to make her pay for her arrogance. How she always made me share the dishwashing duties, how she stayed home and worked out while I went to work every day. I paid all of the bills. And still she complained. And honest to god, she has this thing about her feet. She whines that they always hurt. She knows I have a foot fetish so sometimes while I'm sitting on the couch, she puts her legs on my lap and tells me it's time to massage her feet. She really is spoiled; I know that.
Like a ram, I lowered my head and connected with her chest. It drove her backwards onto the mattress her legs coming up. I kissed her mouth, her neck, while my penis stiffened.
Her hand came up to my face, pushed. It didn't deter me long. I slid slightly toward the edge of the bed, my weight still upon her and starting tugging off her sweatpants.
She kicked me in the face again--the bitch. Cracked my lip right open. We'd been through similar rough foreplay before, but these were hard shots she was hitting me with now. Like she was trying to make a point. Maybe she'd subconsciously learned something while watching the karate tournament. I touched my split lip, looked at the smear of red wetness on my fingertip.
"YOU. FUCKING. BITCH!" I said and tackled her again. She kneed me hard in the groin, and rolled on top of me, pinning my wrists, her long brown hair hanging down, tickling my face.
"You got nothing," she whispered and gave that challenging tilt of her jaw. I wanted to punch her right in the fucking mouth. Impossible at the moment--so I slid my hands toward my own hips, right out from under her grasp, grabbed her kneecaps, and flipped her so I was on top again.
"Ha!" I said and tried to kiss her with my bloody lip. She coughed and spat, right in my face. That was crossing the line. Most men don't like it when it comes to bodily fluids. That's where the primal turn-on of sexual conflict turns to disgust. I got off her, pissed as all hell, and went to the bedroom mirror. I stared at my bleeding lip, my wife's sputum just above it, in that small flap of skin just above my upper lip. I brought my fingers together and got most of it off. Stared at my thumb and forefinger. "You're dead now," I yelled.
In the mirror I saw her move behind me and turned quickly. Too late. Her slap caught me right across the left side of my face. Stinging pain. I chuckled again, incredulous of her behavior ... then lunged forward and seized her shoulders. Her knee came up, hard into my groin. I dropped to my knees.
"Try fucking me now, asshole," she said.
Shit it hurt. It's best I not describe the feeling in my groin at that moment. I trust many of you know it.
She gripped me by the hair and pulled, leading me to the bed. I tried to get her wrist, but she gave a hard yank and I fell forward and hit my head on the bedframe. A clanging sound, and my ears were ringing. I toppled onto my back, dazed, looking up, my forehead partially covered by the mattress apron.
My wife sat down above me and starting beating her slippered feet down on my chest, her thighs flapping in my line of sight. Tap, tap, tap, tap, on my chest; me too stunned, too overwhelmed to raise a hand against her.
Above me she shifted, and then the soles of her slippers began to smack my face, my nose, my cracked lip.
"Ugh, look at this!" she said after ten or twelve shots upon my face. "You got blood on my slippers. Get it off!"
I shook my head and lunged to my feet. Enough of this--and I rushed her. Her legs spread wide and then closed again, around my neck. She squeezed with her powerful calf muscles. Damn, that gym membership I was paying for was paying off ... for her. My hands found her ankles and I tried to pry her open like a clam. It worked ... for a moment, at least ... and I started to pull free.
Her slippered feet came together, her toes pointed inward, and she seized me behind the ears and pulled me forward, deeper into her trap. This time her thighs tightened around my throat, and she seized my hair again and turned my head so I was forced to stare at her legs, her feet.
"I don't want to look at your ugly face," she explained, and squeezed, clenching her feet together to really cinch the knot.
Her inner thighs were warm, suffocating. I tried to struggle and she tightened her scissorhold. Stars sparkled in the periphery of my vision.
"Take off my slippers," she demanded.
***