Chapter One

 

I remember the exact moment it all began; though Fiona's take on the genesis of my fall might date from a little earlier and, now I think of it, is probably the more accurate observation of the two:

"You just don't do it for me anymore," my wife of ten years said, settling a pair of still full breasts into a black bra; breasts that continued to defy the pull of a gravity made greater with each passing year - though not so pristine she could decline a helping hand from Gossard.

Wrapped in my bathrobe and stepping into the bedroom from the en-suite, I'd looked across at her; not sure if I'd heard correctly and, if I had, unsure exactly just what it was I didn't "do" for her anymore.

"I'm not with you, love," I told her. "What don't I do for you?"

She was getting ready for the office, about to get dressed before she took off to the Insurance Company in London where she had just been promoted to Office Manager. Leaving her recently unemployed husband to scan the jobs vacant pages before wandering down to the Jobcentre in his latest and, most probably (it did indeed turn out to be the case), luckless attempt to rejoin the workforce.

My lack of success in the job hunting field crucial, I now know, to the success of her own ambitions in my regard.

I watched as she pulled on some skimpy black panties, plump buttocks peeking out from under the fabric; the same buttocks I'd always wanted to slam my cock between on route to drilling her anus.

Her response always being in the negative:

"When you can bring yourself to go down on me, I'll think about it. Until then..."

Going down on her, as she well knew, something I didn't consider very... manly - my reluctance, if a certain HBO drama had it right, something I shared with any number of Mafioso and Italian/Americans of a certain age.

My refusal to dance oral attendance on her pussy leading to the off-limits sign she subsequently placed on its reverse; only too aware of my penchant for it -how could she not have been- and denying me even a kiss on those wonderful, smooth and plump, buns from then on.

Though, as a testament to my willpower and even with such a carrot dangled before me, I didn't cave.

Oh, yes, Martin Kent -that's me- might have ruled the roost but, when the bridal bonnet happened to find a bee occupying it, his wife was no pushover.

Warning signs hinting at a possible coup, the king -me- paid no attention to whatsoever.

To those of you scanning this confession with similar delusions of household omnipotence?

Read on and learn.

"When I say: you don't do it for me," she explained, smiling sweetly, "I refer to your tiny cock."

"My ti...?"

"It just doesn't get me there anymore."

I remember staring at her with total bewilderment as she pulled open the drawer containing her hose, my sudden inability to speak suiting her fine:

'"Not that it was ever that brilliant," she went on with a snort. "Let's be honest: you can't make candyfloss with a toothpick now, can you? "

"Toothpi...?"

Anger had sidelined bemusement now and I switched to the dark look I always adopted to let her know it wasn't wise to mess with me.

Not that it was winning me much respite lately:

"Is this a joke, Fiona?"

"If it is I can't say it's ever made me laugh," she replied with a sneer, running a hand through her short, pageboy cut, hair; my "Dark look", predictably, having failed to work its magic.

Again.

The law of diminishing returns, as mentioned above, having decided to kick in with a vengeance about a year previous to this particular morning fracas.

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly," she told me, searching the drawer.

I shook my head with disgust, buying time to think up a suitably withering riposte.

Too much time, as it turned out:

"How long have we been married now?" she asked, beating me to it, buttocks assaulting my vision as she bent over to get deeper into the drawer.

My anger sidelined now as panic took over.

Had I missed another anniversary?

Was that why she was being such a ballbreaker?

"Ten years," she supplied the answer for me - as if I didn't know.

I waited for the point to arrive - there was always a point.

"Which is ten times more than any orgasms you've given me."

My relief another year hadn't passed without my noticing immediately receding as anger made a comeback:

"Bollocks!" I told her, really pissed-off now. "You expect me to believe that?"

It was yet another in a number of conversations she'd instigated on the subject of my shortcomings. In fact, since I'd been laid off and she'd been promoted, I had noticed a little attitude towards me - well, more than a little, actually. More and more, I was getting the impression she regarded me as some kind of second-class citizen.

If that.

This was just the latest -though most cutting thus far- example of what appeared to be her growing contempt for me.

Though things hadn't started out that way.

Of course, when we'd first met a different dynamic had been in place.

Back then it had been a smitten Fiona who'd pursued me while I remained purposefully aloof.

Not to indulge in false modesty, I was a good-looking guy back then and -some grey hairs and a negligible amount of waist-pudding apart- still am; so, consequently, I saw no reason to limit my options.

Attracting women had never proved a problem and Fiona had been just the latest in a long line of them. The strength of her initial attraction -as it always does- placing the object of that attraction: me, in a position of power in the relationship.

A position carrying over into marriage itself and ensuring she pretty much let me do as I pleased - though I was careful to keep any bachelor like cavortings I made within the framework of matrimony discreet and under wraps.

Or so I thought.

Halcyon days, my friends.

And days that now seem a long, long, long way distant to the version of me fortunate enough to experience them.

But more of that later.

"Bollocks indeed, Mister," she said, a certain eagerness in her expression telling me there was something in her baiting of me she found not displeasing.

Not even deigning me her full attention, so unthreatening or insignificant did she now appear to consider me, she again rooted through the drawer containing her stockings and pantyhose; adding:

"Your bollocks."

Some black opaque hose was picked up, considered, and discarded.

I knew how it felt.

"And they just ain't up to it," she finished.

It was all getting too much for me. Bad enough for my sense of self-worth when my company had hit the skids; but at least I'd managed to springboard into another job almost instantly. Now even that job had gone and, with another proving wilfully elusive -and to make the pill even more acidic- my wife seemed intent on diminishing whatever self-confidence I had left.

Justifying my anger, I think and assuming I was about to let her:

"If you're trying to fucking annoy me, Fiona, you're doing a bang up job," I gave fair warning.

Locating the pantyhose she was after and sliding the drawer shut, she speared a look my way any half-wit would have found laughably interpretable:

"Big deal!" it said.

The question following my outburst indicating the level of its impact:

"Martin?" she began, voice even: "Have you ever wondered if I masturbate?"

I considered her words carefully - well, more with disbelief, to be truthful.

Had I really heard that?

"What did you say?"

"You heard well enough, I think," she said

"Why on earth would you ask that?" I accused, thoughts thrown. "Of course I bloody haven't. What's got into...?"

"Well, just in case you have wondered and don't fancy going to the trouble of doing so again, let me assure you, I take care of my sexual needs as and when the impulse takes me."

I stared at her, still startled from her first use of the word: "Masturbate".

Don't get me wrong: I'm as open-minded as the next lecher; but there are some things you just don't talk abou...

"Are you getting one of your little stiffies thinking about it?" she smirked, somehow mistaking my preoccupation for arousal; sliding tan pantyhose over legs that remained toned and shapely, despite the fact she was pushing forty to its very limit.

My mouth, as I picture the scene and recall her words, seemed intent on catching flies.

Sexual she may have been -and delightfully so in the early days of both our courtship and then marriage- but always in terms of actions rather than blunt, to the point, words.

"Don't be ashamed to admit it now," she teased her slack-jawed husband. "I know what turns little boys like you on."

Standing to check herself out, she gave her last shot some thought as I bridled at being described in such a way by a woman -my wife- some four years younger than me.

Fiona going on as I pondered my annoyance:

"Just a shame you haven't a clue when it comes to me."

"Alright, Fiona, give it a rest will you? If I've pissed you off in some way just tell me. If it's to do with me not finding work yet, I'll soon..."

"Whether you go out to work or not makes no difference," she came in over me. "The money I was left by my mum took care of the mortgage and with my promotion I'm earning more than enough to keep you."

As you can probably imagine, the intimation she was now "Keeping" me was never likely to sit well with my already tried patience.

"Yeah, well," I told her, "seeing as how I've spent the last ten years bringing the bacon home, it won't hurt you to step in for a month or two until I find somethi..."

This time it was laughter that cut me off.

Laughter that was not exactly pleasant either.

"Please!" she told me when she was finished. "'Bringing the bacon home?'

Her repetition of my phrase inspiring still more hilarity.

"Reliant on your efforts alone," she offered, suddenly straight faced, "we'd have spent the last decade living off spam."

"But..."

"Enough," she snapped, holding up a hand imperiously; again talking over me as she slipped into her skirt and dipped her feet into a pair of black patent shoes with short spike heels. This new assertiveness of hers something I didn't find attractive and wasn't about to put up with for too much longer. Though, even I had to admit, not bringing a salary into the home was limiting my room for manoeuvre somewhat.

Just the same, I remember asking myself:

Who the fuck did she think she was?

A woman in a hurry apparently:

"I haven't time for this right now," she told me dismissively. "I'm already running late."

She turned away from me, scanning the bedroom as if she'd misplaced something before continuing:

"But we do need to talk when I get home tonight."

Turning back to me then as she remembered something:

"Things are going to change," she said. "You can depend on it."

About to turn again when something else triggered her memory:

"Oh!"

"What now?" I remember thinking.

"I'll be late.

My look said:

"Who cares?"

"Very late," she added.

"Whatever," I responded with a shrug.

"Just so you know, I'm going for drinks with Chrissy after work."

Then, not waiting for a reply and snatching up the jacket and case she'd been searching for, she was out the bedroom door and down the stairs, front door slamming behind her as I mulled over her parting words:

"Need to talk?" I asked myself. "Things are going to change?"

Who the fuck did she think she was talking to - one of her staff?

"And where did all this nonsense about sex come from?" I interrogated myself as I made my way downstairs.

Sure, she'd told me she loved it soon after we first met. Not exactly unwelcome news to the constantly horny twenty-nine-year-old I'd been at the time. Even if there were occasions when she seemed insatiable for more than I could deliver.

Quite a few occasions as it happened.

But, come on, now; hardly an intimidating discovery is it?

I mean: women are built to outlast men in that department.

Aren't they?

It's the reality of our respective tackle.

Isn't it?

Anyway, so far so bloody obvious - the above point, whatever my wife might try to say, one that had nothing to do with size.

So what if I couldn't keep pace with her?

Who could?

"Kevin was far more considerate than you," she'd informed me during our early days together.

This after my efforts had once again done the trick for me and, once again, left her wanting and eager for far more than either my staying power or my average length and width -I promise- equipment could provide.

"If he finished and thought I wasn't satisfied he'd get down between my legs and make sure I was - without me even having to ask."

My reply to her is still crystal clear:

"Perhaps you should have married the sick fucker then," I'd told her - a little nauseated if I'm honest. The imagery of the guy getting down there and using his tongue after he'd dumped a load of his own..."

"Ugh!"

"Sometimes," she'd gone on as if I hadn't spoken - flashback to this willingness on his part fetching a nostalgic look to her face: "he'd get down there and look after me for hours. Didn't matter if I was watching television or having a catch up on the phone with friends. Got to the stage where I could just point a finger at my pussy when I wanted some attention and he'd be down there like a shot."

Her expression as she recalled her ex, I seem to remember, both wistful and resentful.

"Yeah, well," I'd snorted, resentful myself. "If wimps are what do it for you perhaps you should have stayed with the one you had."

After a full-blown slanging match -a slanging match I thought I took on a late technical knockout- the subject of "Kevin" didn't arise again and I managed to convince myself her cries whenever we hit the mattress were born of bona fide pleasure; rather than bona fide acting.

My efforts with the conjugals, I'd congratulated myself, were paying off and -as I'd been certain they would- seemed to be hitting the spot with her.

The absence of the kids normally resulting from such efforts not being something she was bothered about and a lack worrying me not a jot.

Neither of us had any desire to join the rest of the: "Baby On Board" brigade - in both neighbourhood and social circle. And our observation of the day-today of those who had decided to go for the school-run option wasn't about to change this area of concurrence in our lives.

A small mercy as it turns out.

Soon, we were settling in to married life together and, despite early reservations for my performance in the sack, she gradually seemed to reach a point where she could take pleasure from it.

All in all, I'd prided myself; our sex life was fulfilling and satisfying to us both.

Pride which did, of course -and if not misplaced- beg the question:

"Why, if fulfilment was the case, had she suddenly put masturbation in the frame?"