Saturday, November 3, 2012

Brendhan's Fall - Part One

Warning: The following story describes events that are possibly illegal, probably immoral, and just generally a very, very bad idea. Nothing in this story should be emulated. Nothing in it is a good idea. Nothing in it actually happened, either -- it's a work of pure fiction. If you are underage, easily offended by things that probably should offend you, or unable to differentiate between fantasy and reality, you should probably piss off right now.

April 7th, 2011

I know that I shouldn’t complain.

I live in a world where countless women are trapped in abusive, violent relationships with men who torment them daily. I’m not in that situation at all. Brendhan isn’t abusive – he’s about as far as humanly possible from that. He worships the ground I walk on. Not literally, but I suspect that if I gave him the slightest reason to believe that I wanted him to he’d switch faiths in a heartbeat. He’s never hit me, yelled at me, or insulted me. Hell, we’ve never even been in an argument – any time that a discussion starts to get heated he immediately backs down and apologizes.

I love Brendhan with all of my heart, I really do. He’s not just my husband, he’s my best friend. I care about him deeply, and I want nothing but the best for him. He honestly means the world to me, and yet I can’t pretend that I don’t regret marrying him.

Everyone warned me, of course. I was fresh out of high school and a virgin; they said I was too young to get married. They said I should play the field a little more, that it didn’t make sense to marry the first man that I dated. My own mother quietly told me that I should have sex with him before committing to anything, just to make sure that we were compatible. I refused, of course – I was a good girl, and I wanted to legitimately wear white on my wedding day. Besides, sex is sex, right? I mean, you stick the penis in the vagina – I was pretty sure that Brendhan could figure that out and didn’t need him to prove it to me before we were wed.

God was I wrong. I mean, he could stick the penis in the vagina, but I found out well after it was too late that apparently that wasn’t enough. Brendhan is always so kind and gentle to me, and that carried over into the bedroom. Unfortunately, I found out that I don’t want it to – I want him to be rough with me, but I honestly don’t think he’s capable. He just doesn’t seem able to challenge me in any way.

I can’t complain to my friends. Boo hoo, my husband is too nice to me! God, talk about first world problems. It shouldn’t even be a problem, yet I can’t pretend that it isn’t. I’m constantly fantasizing about a kind of sex that I know Brendhan can never provide. I’ve only slept with one man in my entire life and only after I married him, yet I feel like the biggest slut in the world just because I can’t stop my mind from wandering.

I don’t know what to do.

April 14th, 2011

I went online to a relationship forum and told complete strangers about my situation. Begging for help anonymously feels pathetic, but I had to talk to someone about it. I’m far too embarrassed to tell anyone I actually know it real life.

Unsurprisingly, I was not well received. The majority of people seemed to feel that I don’t deserve a man as good as Brendhan. They said that I do have a problem, but it’s not my husband – it’s that I’m a stupid, greedy, ungrateful whore. I feel like I should be offended, but I’m not – I agree with them 100%. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have told them how often I fantasize about sex with men who aren’t my husband.

The handful of people who weren’t telling me what a worthless piece of shit I am were pretty consistent in their advice: communication. I think they might be on to something. I’ve never discussed sexual matters with Brendhan before – I always just did what I assumed he wanted. It’s possible that he’d actually love to be rougher with me, he just doesn’t know that I desperately want need that. I’m going to give that a shot – it seems like good advice, and at this point I need to do something. I know it’s wrong, but I really can’t continue like this. Going to talk to him about it tonight – hopefully that will fix everything. I can’t imagine things could get any worse.

April 15th, 2011

Whelp, that was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake less than five seconds into the conversation, yet I forced myself to continue. Smart move, Leah. Way to go.

Brendhan didn’t take it well. I tried my best to let him know that I wasn’t blaming him and that I wasn’t angry, but he immediately jumped on the fact that I’m sexually dissatisfied with him. God, he looked like he wanted to cry the instant I said I wanted to try something different with him in bed. Being the genius I am, I pushed forward until he did actually cry. I wanted to choke him for that. Then I wanted to choke myself for wanting to choke him for showing his emotions. I’m really such a heartless cunt sometimes.

We got through it, though. He now knows that I want him to be less gentle in bed. He also knows that I’ve never experienced an orgasm with him. I really wish I hadn’t told him that second part and I honestly don’t know what the fuck I was thinking when I did. Really, how stupid am I that I thought that could be helpful in any way? Still, he promised me that if that was what I wanted, he could deliver.

Since I’m apparently a glutton for awkward suffering, I then encouraged him to deliver. It was atrocious. If there was a contest for the worst sex ever, I think I might win it.

He was rough, but only when I told him to be, and never as rough as I wanted him to be. I’d tell him to pull my hair, hoping he’d wrap it around his hand and yank hard – he’d give it a gentle tug and then freak out in fear that he might have hurt me. Brendhan usually waits until after he cums to tell me he’s sorry, but this time there was an apology seemingly every thrust.

It didn’t feel like I was being ravished by my husband, it felt like I was masturbating poorly with his body. I could have just slapped myself around and gotten better results – at least I wouldn’t have had to hear I’m sorry and Oh my God, are you okay? every few seconds. It was like seeing a vulgar mockery of my fantasies and being forced to actively participate in them.

Amazingly, Brendhan still has no idea how dissatisfied I am. He seems to think that he did exactly what I wanted him to, so I must be happy with the results. God, I hope we don’t have to do this again – as bad as sex with him has been in the past, this was a billion times worse.

I don’t understand why I couldn’t just be happy with things the way that they were. They weren’t so bad; plenty of women have it worse. I know that sex shouldn’t be that important to me, yet it is. Maybe I should just masturbate more and accept that I’ll never enjoy having sex with Brendhan. Sex shouldn’t be that big of a deal to me.

April 28th, 2011

Brendhan’s been irritable. He has this annual sales contest, where the top salesman at the company gets dinner at our house. It’s a tradition that his father started when he founded the company, and I guess back then people looked at dinner at the boss’s house in a more favorable way. I can’t imagine that his employees actually think of dinner here as something to be fought for, but Brendhan doesn’t seem to realize that. He really is oblivious sometimes.

He’s unhappy because Cliff won the contest. Brendhan doesn’t care for Cliff, and he’s pretty sure that it’s mutual. Cliff, however, is a talented salesperson who makes his company a ton of money. Brendhan won’t fire him and lose his best salesperson; Cliff won’t quit and give up on his fat commission checks. Their relationship is just barely mutually beneficial enough that they don’t kill each other, but they aren’t exactly friends.

Cliff is also an absolute scumbag. Brendhan and I are feminists – hell, he waited until after we were married before having sex with me purely out of respect and he never complained once. Cliff, on the other hand is a chauvinist pig – or at least that’s what Brendhan tells me, I’ve never actually met the man myself. He says that Cliff views women as disposable sex toys, fucking his way through them and casting them aside once he grows bored with them. I’m disgusted by behavior like that, yet at the same time it almost seems appealing. It’s probably just my sexual frustration, I know that I shouldn’t want things like that.

Anyway, Brendhan’s angry because Cliff will be in our home on Saturday night for dinner. He doesn’t want that, and I doubt that Cliff wants it either, but he’s too afraid of disappointing his father to break the tradition. It’s funny, Brendhan’s dad handed him control of the company five years ago, yet he still seems perpetually terrified of disobeying his father. The old man technically doesn’t have any way of controlling Brendhan, but he’s still very clearly pulling the strings.

I hate myself for it, but I just want to slap the shit out of him and tell him to grow a pair. He’s a grown man living in fear of disappointing his daddy, and it’s not okay. It’s pathetic. He really needs to just tell his dad that it’s his company now, and the annual sales contest is going to change. He won’t, though.

I haven’t said anything to him, of course. I’m still forcing myself to play the supportive wife. I’m really wishing I didn’t have to fake it. God, I’m a horrible wife to him. I don’t understand what’s wrong – I really do love him, so why can’t I act like it naturally? Why do I have this constant desire to hurt him?

May 1st, 2011

Last night wasn’t actually as bad as I thought it would be. Dinner was mostly uneventful. Cliff took a few verbal potshots at Brendhan, Brendhan shrugged it off and refrained from returning fire. I want to believe it’s because he has too much dignity to sink to Cliff’s level, but I can’t help but suspect that it’s because he’s just afraid to get into a fight. Either way, Cliff’s attacks remained exclusively verbal. It’s a good thing, too – I’m pretty sure Cliff would utterly destroy Brendhan if it ever came to blows.

Brendhan’s a little on the short side at 5’8". Cliff may only be five or six inches taller than him, but Jesus Christ does it make a difference. I know that half a foot isn’t very much at all, yet he somehow seems to tower over Brendhan.

For the life of me, I don’t understand how Cliff can be successful in sales. When I think of a professional salesperson, I think of someone who is non-threatening and smooth talking. Cliff is the polar opposite of non-threatening, and while he might be able to craft an insult out of a handful of words and lob it at my husband I doubt he’s much of a verbal genius. I hate judging people based on how they look, but in my experience people that are as big and intimidating as Cliff generally don’t develop strong verbal abilities. They don’t have to – they can just smash their way out of unpleasant situations.

Maybe that’s his secret. Maybe he doesn’t persuade the customer to buy by talking up the product, he just threatens to tear off their arms and beat them with them if they don’t give him money. I could honestly see him doing that. It would probably work.

Unfortunately, a new problem has arisen – I can’t seem to stop thinking about Cliff. The entire dinner, I was fantasizing about Cliff beating Brendhan to a pulp and raping me while forcing him to watch. I know he’s a scumbag, I know he doesn’t respect women, and I know I shouldn’t want any of that; but I can’t seem to stop myself. When I took a shower before bed I actually masturbated to that exact thought. Jesus, I really think I might be the worst wife in the world. It’s not bad enough that I fantasize about cheating on my loving husband; I have to fantasize about cheating on him with a sleazebag that beats the shit out of him first.

I’m really starting to hate myself.

May 5th, 2011

So, I learned an important lesson last night: no drinking around Brendhan. At least not when I have a secret. God, I fucked up bad.

I had way too much wine last night, and we were talking about Cliff. Brendhan mentioned that he couldn’t understand how Cliff manages to convince women to sleep with him. Because things aren’t stressful enough, I helpfully let him know that I could completely understand it. Brendhan didn’t say anything, but he shot me a confused look.

If I had been sober, I’d have immediately apologized and claimed that I misspoke. I wasn’t even close to sober, though. Being drunk and idiotic, I proceeded to explain to him how incredibly sexy I thought Cliff’s rough attitude was. Well, I technically didn’t say that it was how sexy I thought he was, I said how sexy other women must have thought he was. Unsurprisingly, I’m pretty sure that Brendhan knew I meant to say I. The tone of my voice and the level of detail I gave left little doubt.

Of course, things weren’t nearly bad enough yet – he still had a little dignity that I hadn’t destroyed. I fixed that good. I explained to him that if we weren’t married, I’d have probably fucked Cliff too. At the time I thought that by prefixing it with if we weren’t married I was somehow making what I said okay. I honestly don’t know how I could have though that.

So, now I’m hungover and I have a depressed husband. Not an angry husband, of course. He didn’t get mad at me and call me a cheap whore like he should have, he just began to cry. He slept on the couch last night. I offered to sleep on the couch so he could take the bed, but he refused. I feel like such a monster.

And yet, I’m still fantasizing about Cliff. Even after my husband spent the entire night crying like a baby, I still can’t stop myself. I feel like I’m going to explode if things don’t change soon.

Continue reading with part two.

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