Heather Brown - Door to door wife

I was hunched over the toilet letting the sperm dribble from my just-fucked cunt when I first saw the ad in the newspaper. Somebody'd been reading it while having a b.m., I guess, and had just left it there.

Considering my circumstances the letters S-E-X understandably caught my attention. It was only natural I would go on reading.

"Wanted," it said, "volunteers with a normal interest and curiosity in the act of love. If you believe, as we do, that sex is more than a mere biological function solely for the purpose of procreation, but still have many questions about its true purpose in life, then you may be interested in working with us. Our non-profit organization desperately needs volunteers to complete a study that will get to the bottom of the human sexual experience for once and for all. The ultimate results of our research will benefit millions of people. Won't you consider helping? You could wind up helping yourself as well as science."

At the bottom there was a phone number to call. Immediately I began to wonder what would happen if I gave into my impulse and just went ahead and did it. After all, the last line in the ad was a reassuring, "No obligation for calling," so what did I have to lose?

"Debbie," Fred's voice from the bedroom abruptly averted my attention from the newspaper, "what are you doing in there?"

"Just practicing a little feminine hygiene," I called back. "You know how I smell like rotten fish if I don't drain out all your juice after we have sex."

"You can do that later," he replied, the irritation in his voice transcending the two rooms and hallway that were separating us. "I'm ready for more action."

"I was afraid of this," I groaned wearily to myself.

"What'd you say?"

"N… nothing," I unconvincingly lied.

"Well, stop playing with yourself and get back in here," he called impatiently. "My dick is hard as a rock and ready to see the inside of your asshole."

I closed my eyes and winced. Fred had a ten-incher when aroused, and it would hurt like hell when he crammed it to the hilt up my tight anus. Several times recently he had actually drawn blood with his brutal thrusts up my rectum.

It had been like this for several weeks. Ever since Fred had celebrated his fortieth birthday, in fact.

With the onset of middle-age, Fred seemed determined to prove that he had as much power in his loins as he'd had when he was eighteen. When it came to sex, he had abruptly became insatiable after five or six years of relative dormancy.

Of course, I hadn't known Fred when he was eighteen, being only seven at the time. Fred was eleven years older than myself, and was a successful attorney when we met after I was hired through an employment agency to be his secretary. However, when he got a couple of martinis in him, he loved to brag about his days as a teenage stud.

When we'd met, he'd been married. However, our mutual attraction for one another had eventually ripped that union apart. Considering the strength of our pre-marital passion, I'd expected that nothing bad could ever happen to us once his divorce was final and we tied the knot.

That shows how naive I was at twenty-two. Once we were legally man and wife, just about everything we had shared as clandestine lovers faded. Soon our sex life faded into one as barren as the one he had originally shared with his first wife.

The thing was, though, I eventually became used to it. After the twins were born, it was relatively easy to swallow my initial disappointment because they were a handful. I convinced myself that a home, security, and children should be enough to make any normal woman happy, and thoroughly compensate over a period of time for any disillusionment I might have had about the romantic side of life.

Then, to my utter surprise, Fred went haywire. It literally started on the day he was forty. After years of disinterest, he suddenly couldn't get enough of sex. He started insisting on all kinds of things we hadn't done since we were lovers – and even some new ones. Blow-jobs, cunt-eating, ass-fucking – even bondage and weird things involving shit and dressing up in each others' clothing. There was nothing he didn't want to try.

I didn't know how to handle it. Over the years I'd been forced to train myself into a passionless state, and now I just wanted to be left alone.

However, I had also conditioned myself to believe that the marriage vows were not to be taken lightly. I really had convinced myself that a wife's duty was to love, honor, and obey. I guess it was the hidden guilt over having stolen Fred from his first wife that made me so straight. Compensating, the experts call it.

As much as I had come to be unmoved by physical intimacy, I felt it my duty to give in to whatever my husband desired. At best, I felt nothing, and at worst it was agony, but I hadn't the will to resist. I could just see myself winding up on the outside, totally rejected, as his first wife had.

So when Fred kept impatiently calling from the bedroom for me to literally get my ass back in there so he could prong it with his huge dick, I saw no alternative but to do so. Getting up off the toilet, I grabbed a jar of Vaseline so at least I'd have some much-needed lubrication, and started back toward the bedroom.

However, before I reached the door, I remembered something.

"Hurry up, Debbie," he snapped. "I'm hot to trot."

"Just a second," I answered, and returned to the vicinity of the toilet. Bending down, I picked up the newspaper, crudely ripped out the ad I'd been reading, and hurriedly slipped it under a stack of towels.

Then, before I had a chance to reflect on why I'd saved the ad, Fred's demands became even more severe, and I was compelled to scurry toward the bedroom. Clutching the Vaseline jar, I came upon him lying on the bed stroking an angrily red hard-on that more resembled a torture device in my eyes than a bodily organ.

"How do you like it?" he asked with a leer, as proud of his stiff dick as a Little Leaguer of a new baseball bat.

"Huh, fine, dear… fine," I said in a monotone, my concentration focused on how to get my anus sufficiently lubricated before he started cornholing me.

"What's the jar in your hand?" he snapped accusingly.

"Just some… some Vaseline," I stammered self-consciously.

"Forget it," he barked. "You know I like your natural juices."

"But… but I don't have any," I protested. "Not in my ass."

"You would if you loved me," he arrogantly answered. "And you do love me, don't you?"

"Then forget about the Vaseline and get down on the bed and spread your cheeks. We're going to keep doing this until you get it right."

I felt like I had no alternative. A loyal wife does not contradict her husband, especially in the bedroom, no matter how painful the result might be. Reluctantly, I got rid of the unused lubricant.

Obediently, I got onto the bed and positioned myself on my knees with my butt sticking up in the air the way Fred liked it. Then, reaching backward, I clasped the cheeks of my ass with my trembling fingers and pried them apart. As I did so, I could feel the pulsing knot of my asshole flexing involuntarily out into the open.

"Mmmmmm," I could hear him drooling behind me, "I love the sight of your asshole. It's so round and red. So much tighter than your cunt. When I stick my cock inside it, your pussy seems absolutely sloppy by comparison."

Suppressing a shudder, I closed my eyes and tried to blot out my horrific anticipation of what was about to occur.

But, of course, that was impossible. Impossible, when Fred refused to shut up about what he was going to do to me.