The Bad Husband
by ithkoryn@yahoo.com
A young groom learns painful lessons about women. 


When I first met Jillian, she made me nervous. We were seniors at the same
university in Washington, and she was outspoken, engaged, and challenging. Yet
she didn't seem to have an agenda the way most intellectually active college
students did. She seemed to committed to living a full, rich life without
subjugating herself to any faddish cause or overriding moral principle. And
her attraction to life's pleasures wasn't impeded by any constraints like
Veganism, or any suffocating commitment to ecology.

Not to mention, she was gorgeous. She had dark, piercing brown eyes. She was
not strikingly lean, but she was fit and athletic - in fact, she had been on
the school's softball team for the first three years at college, and when I
met her, she worked out at the gym at least four days a week. She was one inch
shorter than me, so five-foot-nine. This meant that in heels, she towered over
me. She had C-cup breasts, on the large side of C, and she usually wore her
shoulder-length hair loose.

I fell in love with her the instant she stopped making me nervous. Her
vivacity and self-assurance enchanted me. As soon as I could summon the nerve,
I proposed to her.

We agreed not to have sex before we got married. We wanted to preserve the
sacredness of the first sexual encounter; we wanted to save the intimacy as a
reward for our decision to commit to a life-long bond.

One night she admitted this self-restraint made her a little nervous. "Don't
be offended, sweetie, but I do want to make sure we're physically compatible."

"What do you mean?"

Jillian smiled at me warmly, then reached over to my belt. "Let's just take a
peek," she said. She undid my pants, then pulled down my boxer shorts. She
paused, then looked up at me smiling a glowing, wonderful smile. "Nice!"

I was so proud. I knew my eight-inch cock was above average size, but I was
never really sure what would please a woman who was sexually self-aware.

Even though we agreed not to have sex before we got married, our sexual urges
were powerful, and we could not ignore them. Mostly it was her sexual urges we
took care of. In the four months leading up to our wedding, I gave her oral
sex almost every single day. Sometimes more than once a day. Sometimes I'd
spend more than an hour down there, fondling her, licking her, caressing her.
On two occasions, while we were hiking in a wooded, secluded park just outside
of town, she became so excited she made me go down on her right there, in a
public park. I admit, I was really uneasy about it. After she came, she felt
between my legs, and said, "That didn't turn you on?"

"I was a little nervous, actually," I stammered.

"What a coward," she taunted.

We sometimes openly fantasized about our lives together when we got married.
I'd wonder about the great things she'd cook for me, and the beautiful garden
she'd cultivate.

"I'll make sure you come every day well past your eightieth birthday," Jillian
told me. "And on our honeymoon, I'm going to fuck you until you can't even
stand up."

Her frankness about sex surprised me sometimes, but I realized, given how
starved some guys are, I was really lucky to have a woman who was in touch
with her sexuality.

The blessed day finally came, and we celebrated our union with great splendor
and merriment. We both got pretty drunk, actually, and while I was fucking
Jillian missionary style, she got a little wild.

"Is it in yet, Eric? Come on, honey, put your dick inside me. I want to feel
your cock; where is it? Where's your cock? I can't feel it."

When I came, although I could have sworn she had had a good, strong orgasm,
she was not satisfied. "I'm not done," she said.

"Oh, honey, I'm not sure if I have any more energy."

"You're kidding," she said. She reached between my legs, grabbed my cock, and
began stroking it. This did not make it any harder; I was spent.

"Come on, Eric. Where's your manhood? Don't tell me I married a pussy."

Her crude question startled me. Honestly, it hurt my feelings, and made the
prospects of getting aroused even more remote.

"Is this your manhood?" Jillian put her hand on my balls. They hung loose in
my scrotum, which was wet with a combination of sweat and fluids from her
vagina. Jillian suddenly tugged on my balls hard, yanking them up toward her.

"Ouch! Ouch! No, Jillian!"

I swatted at her hand, and she let go.

"Excuse me?" She said, with a tone of disbelief. "You may not hit me, Eric."
With that, she moved her hand back, then swung a hard fist right into my
testicles. I cried out, doubling over. The pain in my testes was mind-numbing;
no one had ever struck me there before. I could not believe this was happening
on my wedding night.

"Don't you ever hit me, Eric. I am your wife now. If you ever strike me, so
help me, I will rip off your dick and shove it down your throat. Then I'll cut
off your little balls and put them in my fucking purse."

I am embarrassed to say, I began to cry at that point. I admit, I have never
been verbally lashed - or physically battered - like that before, and I felt
shocked, hurt, and terrified.

"Oh, Jesus," I heard her mutter, "Don't tell me you're weeping now."

Jillian and I lay like that for about ten minutes, her saying nothing, me
weeping. Eventually I quieted down. My hands cupped my aching groin, and I
noticed I was trembling a little. Even in the dark, I could feel my new wife
staring at me with contempt. The tension was too much for me.

"I'm sorry, honey," I said mournfully. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"That's okay," she said, reaching out and stroking my hair.

"I'll never do it again."

"I know you won't."

After a minute or two of massaging my scalp, she reached down to where my
hands were, and pulled them away.

"Are you ready to please me now?"

Her question made me gasp; could she possibly want sex, given everything that
had just happened? Even more surprisingly, she took my balls into her hand
again, and this time - I still do not understand it - I quickly became erect.
Jillian pushed me onto my back, mounted my cock, and fucked me to a deeper
level of satisfaction.

"Seems you know your place," she said, happily gulping my cock with her pussy.

My new wife was spontaneously expressive with her sexuality. Sometimes when I
was cooking her dinner, she'd hug me from behind, then reach around and slip
her hand into my pants. She'd lift up my balls and roll them around in her
fingers. "You're a good housewife," she'd say, and thrust her pelvis against
my ass a few times. She'd increase the pressure on my testicles until I
gasped, or whimpered, then release me. "Finish dinner, hon, I'm hungry."

There was no question her sexual appetite was greater than mine. On one
occasion, while she rode on my cock, she said, "Your cock's pretty big, hon,
but your balls are sub-average. It's false advertising! I thought your dick
was the measure of your manhood, but really it's your balls. And they're on
the small side."

My feelings of inadequacy led me to start seeing a therapist. I did not
mention this to Jillian, because I was embarrassed by it. I didn't know how to
find a therapist, so I contacted my health insurance, and they found me a
psychiatrist named Evelyn H. I thought it would be useful for me to have a
woman shrink, since I was so confused by my wife's behavior; Dr. Evelyn could
help me understand her, I hoped. I immediately liked Dr. Evelyn; she was in
her mid-fifties, slim, greying hair. She was very motherly and kind.

Dr. Evelyn pointed out to me that sex was really the only aspect of my
marriage where there was real turbulence. My wife wanted it every day,
sometimes more than once, but I would've been fine having intercourse two or
three times a week. Once would have been sufficient, if it was loving and
intimate. But my modest libido was not what set the agenda for us; Jillian was
not going to go unsatisfied. She was quite willing to prod me into action.

Sometimes, for example, I'd wake up in the middle of the night, gasping in
pain from my wife squeezing my testicles in her palm and tugging on my
scrotum. She'd manoeuver me on top of her, her legs wide apart, then direct my
cock into her vagina, all the while maintaining her grip on my balls. She'd
keep clutching my nuts while we fucked, and often her grip was so tight I
could not move my hips; moving in any direction would cause my balls to tear
off. When I froze like that, my wife would pull me forward by the balls,
forcing me into her, then back out; into her, then back. And she'd often use
her feet, too; sort of locking the tops of her feet against the curved arches
of my feet, so that she could push my body up against hers.

During sex, I was always the vocal one. My wife occasionally moaned softly,
but I was almost constantly gasping, grunting, and crying out involuntarily.

"What's the matter?" My wife would ask slyly after my more effeminate,
desperate cries. "You can't take it, can't you? Who's the submissive one,
Eric?"

At least once during each time we had sex, my wife would get so rough with my
testicles, I'd have to pull her hands away, moving her arms up towards her
head. In these moments of relief, I'd try to fuck her really savagely, as if
by using my penis I could devastate her the way she did me. I never could, of
course; she enjoyed sex, and had more orgasms than I did, but she never became
the enfeebled wreck that I became through sexual confrontation. And a few
minutes later, she lower her arms, and once again her hands would lock onto my
balls. She'd squeeze and pull with a vengeance, making me whimper and gasp.

After sex, I would lie breathless and exhausted, gently touching my genitals
to make sure everything was intact. I truly feared that one night, my wife
would injure me in her fierce sexual frenzy.

"She is injuring you," my therapist told me one afternoon. "She's hurting you,
and it sounds like she's doing it on purpose, or at least recklessly."

Dr. Evelyn leaned closed to me and said in a voice both soothing and alarmed,
"That is domestic abuse, Eric. She's abusing you. She is belittling your
manhood."

Most of the time I ignored Dr. Evelyn's advice. I liked being able to open up
to her, but if I followed her advice and tried to lay down unwelcome
boundaries with my wife, she would kick my ass. Dr. Evelyn didn't have to live
with Jillian twenty-four / seven, and she obviously did not grasp how strong a
person my wife was.

"Are you jerking off in private?" Jillian grilled me one evening when it
seemed particularly difficult for me to get a firm erection.

"No! I get plenty of action with you, honey. Plenty."

"You seem to have so little sexual energy, Eric." Jillian grabbed my head, and
turned my face to look her in the eyes. "Are you having an affair?"

"No, Jillian, of course not. You're the only woman I'm attracted to."

"Hm. Well, Eric. I have to warn you." She reached between my legs and grasped
my testicles. "If you ever do cheat on me, I will castrate you. Personally."

I heard myself gulp.

"Jillian, that's silly. I would never, ever do that. I took a solemn vow to
you, and god help me, I will always abide by that vow."

My cock began to get good and hard.

"Okay. And actually, I would just cut one of your balls off. I'd let you keep
one. I'm not sure which one; this one seems bigger; I'd chop the other one.
Your manhood might be diminished if you lost one nut, but it's already pretty
minimal, isn't it, babe?"

I looked down again. "Am I not man enough for you, honey?"

"No, sweetie, you're not man enough for me." She squeezed my balls tighter and
by now my cock was fully erect. "I've got to say, I'm pretty tempted to have
an affair myself. When I see those fit, muscular studs at the gym, I can
barely control myself."

With that, my wife pushed me down on the bed and mounted me.

"Because you aren't man enough for me, Eric."

The only time I ever followed Dr. Evelyn's advice was a few weeks after that.
What happened was that my wife went out and bought a ten-inch, very life-like
textured dildo. At the base of the cock was a mass of rubber contoured like
the front portion of a scrotum containing balls that, to me, looked really
big.

"See these?" My wife said, stroking the part of the rubber that was shaped
like the front of a pair of balls. "That's the size of a normal man's balls.
Now compare." She held the manufactured package up to my genitals. The dildo
was two full inches longer than my eight-inch cock, but she was right; the
balls looked like they would be substantially larger than mine.

The dildo was attachable to a leather harness.

"I bought it for you," my wife said. "For those nights when you can't get it
up a second time, or - haha - when you can't get it up at all, you can strap
this on and pretend to be a real husband."

My wife and I began to use the new toy the very first day we got it. And
despite the plan to use it as a back-up, it quickly became her first choice.
"It gives me a fuller fuck," my wife said. "And I don't have to worry about it
going limp, so honestly, it beats you hands-down. If you're frustrated, you
can beat off." With this prosthetic aid, we ended up spending a lot more time
having sex, and I admit, Jillian was a lot more physically satisfied.

Maybe it seems surprising, but I felt pretty good about it. I enjoyed
satisfying my wife sexually, and I did a better job of that with the strap-on
than with my own penis. It made me feel like a real man. The leather straps
themselves were kind of problematic, unfortunately, because two of them went
under my crotch - I think the harness may have been meant for lesbians - and
sometimes they chafed or pinched my scrotum. But I was able to lubricate with
petroleum jelly, and that made it okay.

When a three-week period went by in which I only had sex with my wife with the
dildo - never once touching with my penis - I mentioned it to Dr. Evelyn.

"That's not all right, Eric," she told me. "Your wife has elevated a toy over
you. Don't you see, Eric? She has nullified you."

Dr. Evelyn reminded me that my cock was eight inches long - a full two inches
longer than average men. She convinced me that Jillian was a "sexual
predator," and I should put my foot down and demand that she address her own
issues.

"If she loves you, Eric, she will surrender the dildo, and accept you for who
you are."

"I can't please her, Doctor. She tells me directly, I'm not enough of a man
for her."

"If she loves you, she will accept you. You are a good husband, Eric. And in a
marriage, men and women must be equals. She has no right to dominate and
belittle you."

I drank the Kool-Aid; I left Dr. Evelyn's office feeling charged up, full of
masculine pride and dignity. And later that night I confronted my wife about
the dildo.

Here's how it happened. I was watching a baseball game that went into extra
innings, it was already past eleven, and my wife walked up to me wearing only
her underwear - no bra or top - holding the strap-on dildo.

"Ready, Mr. Man?"

"Uh, well . . . the game's still on."

She reached over, grabbed my wrist, then pulled me up to my feet. She
unsnapped my jeans, allowing them to fall to the floor.

"Honey," I began say.

"Yes?" She directed me to step out of my jeans. I was now standing in my tight
white briefs. She put her hand under my balls, closed her fingers around them,
then lifted them upwards.

"Yes, Eric?"

"Uh . . ."

"Here," she said, handed me the strap-on.

"Hon, I don't want to use that."

She froze. An eternity of silence passed between us, my wife staring me in the
eye, searching my expression.

"Are you going to please me with your dick? With this?" She poked at my
flaccid penis. "You think this lazy noodle is going to make me happy?" She
slapped at my cock, and her fingertips brushed against my balls, making me
shrink momentarily.

"Honey, don't belittle me."

"What?" She said, laughing.

"I am a good husband. You should accept me as I am."

Unfortunately, I didn't have Dr. Evelyn's soothing way of speaking. My wife
took this as antagonistic, and reacted accordingly. She slapped me fiercely
across the face. Suddenly my ears were ringing loudly; I was dizzy, and stars
drifted across my vision.

"Bitch," she said, then slapped me again. My face felt numb where she hit me,
and I swayed on my feet.

"Don't you ever, ever tell me what to do."

"I didn't," I whimpered woefully.

This really pissed her off. "Don't lie to me," she yelled. "You think you can
order me around simply because you're my husband?" She was utterly consumed
with fury. " You think I'm your goddamn slave?" She shook her head, said,
"No," then snapped her knee into my balls. The pain shattered me; I fell to my
knees, clutching my groin and gasping tearfully.

After I lay crumpled at her feet for a few minutes, my wife hissed, "Get on
your feet. Get on your fucking feet, you lying little bully."

She grabbed the hair on the top of my head and pulled me to my feet. My groin
ached terribly, and my eyes were spilling tears.

"Don't you ever tell me what to do. Ever."

"I'm sorry," I cried. "I'll never do it again. I am so, so sorry. Please
forgive me, honey, please."

"You are a bullying, cowardly eunuch," my wife cursed, then, taking several
steps back, launched her right foot directly into my testicles.

I fell face-forward onto the floor, bawling. People must have heard my grief
all the way down the street. My hands clutched at my groin desperately; my
balls felt as utterly demolished as my dignity.

"Eric," my wife said, standing above my broken body. "If you aren't willing to
wear my toy for me, then I'll wear it for you."

After a few seconds, I felt my wife pulling off my tight white briefs. Then I
felt my wife lying down on top of me, spreading my ass-cheeks to expose my
anus. Then my wife plunged the ten-inch penis inside me. The pain was
unbelievable; I felt like I was being literally ripped open, and I could tell
it was a challenge for her to plunge that huge mass of rubber into my tight
anus, but my wife was determined, and she was powerful. She raped me with
merciless force, and I wailed, sobbed and quivered the whole time. I begged
for her to stop, my voice garbled with pathetic tears. Every so often she
would slam one of her fists into my ass and say, "Stop thrashing."

After about fifteen minutes, she said, "Eric, I will fuck you up the ass every
night until you agree to use the strap-on. I am not willing waste my time with
your lousy, limp cock anymore. You are a miserable excuse for a man."

Of course I yielded to her demands, and she stopped raping me. When I managed
to collect myself somewhat, she instructed me on how to properly clean off the
dildo, then told me to strap it on. I did my best to please her that night,
but I had so much internal pain from the forcible penetration, I'm sure she
wasn't fully happy.

And then I had to explain my failure to Dr. Evelyn. I was dreading this, quite
honestly. I was afraid she'd be disappointed in me.

But in fact, she was just more concerned than anything. "She bruised your
face, Eric."

"I know," I muttered. "She slapped me around a little."

"Tell me exactly what your wife did to you."

I felt my face get hot, then tears began spilling from my eyes.

"She kicked me in the balls, then fucked me up the ass with the dildo she
makes me use on her."

"Did she do any permanent damage, or cause any bruising?"

"I didn't really look."

"Well, Eric, it's important that we know this. Stand up and take off your
pants."

I stood up, and Dr. Evelyn unsnapped my pants, and pushed them down around my
ankles.

"I'm going to drop your underwear and make sure you weren't too badly hurt,"
she explained, slipping the elastic band of my underwear down my ass. Dr.
Evelyn walked behind me, and gently held, then separated, my buttocks.

"Looks like she was pretty rough with you, Eric." She gently prodded the
tender skin of my anus. I stared at the floor.

Facing me again, she asked, "How are your testicles?" She put her hand around
my balls, then asked, "Does this hurt?" She squeezed very, very gently. Her
hand felt warm and strong.

"It feels okay," I whispered.

"Does it feel good, Eric?"

I did not respond. She continued massaging my testicles, then ran her fingers
along my cock.

"Does this hurt, Eric?" I shook my head. "I think it's important that we make
sure you are still able to function sexually."

"I don't think I should do that, Doctor," I whispered, even though I noticed
that I was almost fully hard in her hand.

"Eric, I would be remiss in my professional duties if I did not make sure you
sustained no permanent damage."

With that, Dr. Evelyn led me a few steps back to her couch. "Lie on your
back," she instructed me, and I obeyed. It had been weeks since I actually had
sex with a woman - I had been replaced by the dildo in my marriage - and I
think that period of deprivation contributed to my moral lapse. I do not make
excuses for myself; I allowed Dr. Evelyn to lay me down on her couch naked.
She pulled her underwear off, then mount me in her skirt. She rode on my cock,
and both of us came. I did not stop her.

Despite the sweetness of that encounter, I never went back to Dr. Evelyn. I
felt horrible about my infidelity. I was a really, really bad husband, and I
knew that if Jillian found out, she would do what she promised; she would cut
off one of my testicles. And I knew she had every right to do that, because
she had warned me that's what she would do if I ever cheated on her. I was
terrified, and it seemed to me that the best thing for me to do would just be
to please my wife in every possible way. I guess in the end my shameful
betrayal made me more obedient.