Domme By Default

Chapter 2 him

I love making love to my wife. She's always said she enjoys it, and when I've felt less-than, it never fails to raise my spirits ... among other things.

I truly don't see her imperfections. What kind of hypocrite would I be to poke fun at a woman who lights my world when I don't have a perfect body? When she is apparently blind to my shortcomings?

Never.

As far as I'm concerned, she's the most beautiful woman in the world, and she always will be.

There were times I'd chafe when she'd take control of something in our lives, my male pride bristling that there was yet another thing I couldn't do well. Whether it was changing out a part in the toilet so it didn't run up the damn water bill, to changing out the power steering pump on the car.

Yes, she did that. All of that. She's an amazing woman and I'm fucking lucky to have her.

I'll be the first to admit I'm not good at that kind of stuff and she is, from training and instinct. At first I think we both danced around things in the early years. I would watch her literally pull herself up during a discussion, the wheels practically turning in her head as she stopped short and either yes-deared me or simply changed subject, not wanting to bruise my ego.

Another thing I loved her for.

Men are supposed to fix the car and the roof and the fucking toilet. I'm not a moron, but I'm book smart and I know it, not good with my hands at all. Men aren't supposed to be standing on the ground holding the ladder while their wife is up on the roof applying a tar patch around a vent pipe to keep water from leaking in.

She never rubbed it in.

Ever.

I'm more likely to get yelled at for a stupid computer question that she's answered for me a dozen or more times, or for not locking the keypad on my cell phone and texting her a bunch of blank messages while my phone is in my pocket.

When the first fantasies started, mild hints and nudges from her in bed to take control, I tried. I really did. I wanted to do that for her. But there's some things, no matter how much you love someone, that you can't admit.

How could I admit to her that I wanted those same things

... from her? She already did so much. Was I supposed to dump one more thing on her? Here, do it all, honey. Take control of it all.

That wasn't fair to her even though the thought made me harder than fucking granite.

I spent a lot of time alternately resentful and hating myself for it. Not resentful of her, of the situation.

One night we were making love. As I fucked her, she reached behind me and stroked my balls. Damn, I love when she does that. And as her hand rested on my ass, I bit back the urge to say, "Just a little more, baby. You're almost there."

She'd been through so much before we were together. I'd seen her at her worst and knew there were things she never wanted to revisit. Would it make me any better than her ex to ask those kinds of things of her? Was the context that much different despite us being together over a decade?

How do you finally say to your wife, "Honey, I want you to fuck my ass"?