Sweetness & Blight

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Lovely Amelia is the sweetest, kindest, most gentle-spoken and unfailingly polite woman I have ever met. Nearly thirteen years my junior my beautiful new wife is a prize beyond compare. I dote on her almost to a fault. Yet as accommodating as I am she is becoming increasingly controlling of me in a manner I find disconcerting. In her quietly insistent way she has caused me to forgo many of my cherished pleasures. Now she is at it again.

Wearing only a floor-length robe of translucent black silk that matches her hair and contrasts wonderfully with her unblemished porcelain skin she wrinkles her cute little nose as she undresses me. The bedroom we’ve occupied less than a month as man and wife is as opulent and expansive as the rest of this mansion on the Long Island coast and I’m frantically eager to once again fall into the enormous bed with this nubile beauty. My c**k is tenting the front of my slacks as she slowly unbuttons my shirt. We’ve only been apart three hours. Yet as enjoyable as my weekly poker game always is it seems an eternity since I’ve gazed on that lovely young face, exquisitely slender body and shimmering banner of midnight hair. Upon reaching my navel, however, Amelia pauses. Raising her large, cerulean-blue eyes she looks straight into mine with the tiniest frown carving a line between her elegantly arched brows.

“You said you’d quit smoking, darling.”

“I have, Amelia, I swear it.”

“Well your clothes still stink of cigars.”

“I’ve just come from a poker game, dear. Everyone there but me smokes like a chimney.”

“Obviously! How much did you drink, and how much did you lose?”

“I almost doubled the two hundred dollars you gave me. And I only had the three drinks you asked me to limit myself to: three scotch-and-waters.”

“Good boy!”

Amelia smiles approvingly at me, her naturally ruddy little lips curving up to form the unbelievably fetching dimples in her cheeks that first attracted me to her. She continues unbuttoning me. The shirt falls open at last and her hands slide like silk over my belly and sides. Then still speaking with irresistible sweetness she drops her bombshell.

“Nevertheless, I want you to stop going to these poker games.

“The drinking isn’t good for your heart, or your belly.” She grips my little love handles significantly. “And the smell of smoke nauseates me. How can I get in the mood for you if I feel like puking every time we get close like this?”

Helplessly I scrabble for some kind of compromise.

Doesn’t every guy deserve at least one night out with his friends? Already she’s put a stop to any bar-hopping, and refused to finance keeping my impossible-to-get season tickets to the Rangers. The poker games are the last of my pre-marital masculine social occasions. It’s not that I need time away from her – I could gaze enraptured at that perfect face and body for eternity. It’s just that men got to be men once in a while.

“Couldn’t I just take a shower when I get home, and drop my clothes straight down the laundry chute?”

Again that tiny frown delves between Amelia’s brows. Her hands withdraw from me and significantly tighten the sash on her robe. Even after less than a month I know what that means: no s*x until I comply with her wishes. Though she’s wildly enthusiastic and even insatiable in bed Amelia seems able to defer her appetites effortlessly whenever she doesn’t get what she wants. In contrast I’m madly addicted to her incomparably desirable body, her aggressively sexy way and exhaustive invention. Seeing this unspoken ultimatum I quickly if reluctantly cave.

“All right, darling: no more poker games. The guys are already calling me the most p***y-whipped fool in existence. I guess I’ll just have to confirm that for them.”

Amelia’s frown smoothes out, replaced by those intolerably cute dimples. Her eyes twinkle with satisfied triumph and her smile is teasing, smug, and filled with breathtaking carnal promise all at once. She goes back to undressing me. When my zipper slides down my erection leaps eagerly out of my briefs and into her gently caressing hand. She purrs approvingly at my helpless moans and strokes me seductively up and down.

“Why would you want to go out at all, Charles? Doesn’t spending every night at home alone with your p***y-whipping wife have its advantages?”

I notice she makes no mention of the two or three nights a week she goes out with her own friends while I’m obliged to put in extra hours of work at the computer in the den. But while she manipulates me thus I’m helpless to make any protest, quibble, or entertain anything other than mind-blowing arousal. I can only gasp and moan and feel a dread-tinged excitement overwhelm me at the prospect of yet another s****l conquest.

As voracious and insatiable as Amelia always is in bed, she unfailingly exhibits a particularly victorious zeal after forcing some concession from me. She becomes downright dominant in her demanding aggression, a condition I find as demeaning and unsettling as her increasing control over me. Yet despite this same innate weakness in me responds accordingly. Though I rather dread these occasions I’ve strangely come to crave them as well. Somehow the diminishment of my manhood and freedom inspires a paradoxical spike in the intensity of my orgasms, a mystery I’m helpless to unravel either during the throes of such all-consuming passion or in the uneasiness of aftermath. Even the contempt I inevitably feel for myself in the days following such a shameless capitulation can’t dampen the depraved electricity generated during the experience itself.

This occasion is no different. Having coerced my submission in the matter of the poker games Amelia promptly celebrates her triumph and dubiously rewards my surrender in her accustomed manner. She suddenly shoves me hard, toppling me back over the foot of the huge, antique four-poster bed. Abandoning her methodical slowness she rips my slacks and briefs the rest of the way off, leaving me naked but for my socks. Without removing or even opening her robe she kneels between my dangling legs and takes my fiercely eager erection possessively in hand. I know what’s coming now, and groan in trepidatious anticipation.

Amelia’s fingers are as adept as those of the most practiced courtesan. With feather-light tickles and touches of the most sensitive nerve junctions she tortures me with ever-growing ecstasy before wrapping me in a firm grip. Then she pumps me up and down, slowly at first but with gradually increasing fervor. Changing the angle of my erection constantly from its natural inclination to perpendicular to an exquisitely pained back-bent state she varies the speed of her manipulations with an intuition that is almost prescient. Even as she cups, rubs, and gently squeezes my balls at all the right times Amelia again and again flogs me manically right to the brink of orgasm. Then as always at the last second she backs off for another eternity of slow, measured strokes.

For at least twenty minutes she plays me like a fiddle this way. Then it’s time for an even more virtuoso performance. Dipping her head she licks off the clear sweet pre-come coating the tip. She smacks her lips appreciatively and kisses it. Then she begins another long, slow dalliance between the organs connecting us: her supremely educated tongue and my monstrously throbbing manhood.

She licks and tickles the tip some more. Concentrating particularly on the nerve-rich spot where it joins the underside of the shaft she teases and toys with me mercilessly before slathering the rest of the head. All around under the rim of the glans slides the questing tip of her tongue, repeatedly tracing my circumference. Then up and down the entire length of the shaft she licks and kisses, always concentrating on the sensitive underside while not neglecting a single square millimeter elsewhere. By this time I’m clutching fistfuls of coverlet, writhing in place and lifting my ridiculously socked feet off the floor to strain my spread legs out straight on either side of her, the toes curled and even the soles fully flexed. For some reason I’ve almost never been able to climax with my legs spread. I need them clamped tightly together. Amelia knows this which is why we’re positioned thus. Ejaculating in her mouth, on her face or body or even before she intends me to do so is the most unforgivable sin I could commit. I’m moaning and squirming desperately and practically weeping with need long before she even deigns to take me into her wonderful mouth. Then at last she does.

Closing her lips over just the head, supremely skillful Amelia seals me in her wet warmth and sucks. One hand continues to caress and squeeze and palpate my balls while the other brutally pinches the root of my insanely straining shaft: insurance should some anomaly cause me to shoot unexpectedly. This is wholly unnecessary. In addition to the quirk of my widely spread legs her mouth is even better at reading the barometer of my arousal than everything else. I swear she can monitor my pulse, blood pressure and bodily temperature continuously while she pleasures me to near delirium. And naturally that’s exactly what she does. From swirling with her tongue and suckling like the greediest succubus she begins bobbing up and down, taking me inside her by maddening little increments. Eventually I’m sliding all the way in and out, six inches of stiffness disappearing between her tightly clamped lips to re-emerge glistening wet before being rhythmically engulfed again in seeming perpetuity. Showing no discomfort whatsoever Amelia impales herself effortlessly, entirely and repeatedly while I writhe and moan in torturous ecstasy. Swiftly or slowly, again bringing me right to the brink despite my splayed legs or teasing and toying with me interminably my clearly seriously experienced wife fellates me for an exquisitely trying eternity. But at last she shows me mercy. Or perhaps she can defer her own pleasures no longer. Whatever the case is, without losing a stroke with her mouth Amelia finally withdraws a condom from a pocket of her robe. Clamping even tighter with her lips she pulls back one more time, squeegeeing excess spit from me before letting my raging member pop out free and madly pulsating. With the swiftness of long practice she rolls that prophylactic on and moves out to the side, letting me close my legs at last.

This is well-established ritual by now. Amelia claims to loathe the smell and absolutely abhor the mess of ejaculation. Once she’s made certain these will be contained she grips me in her fist again and commences the last brief but furious flurry of strokes that finally brings on my wrenching, apocalyptic, unfortunately necessary orgasm. Then as I lay panting hugely beneath her and trying to come to terms with yet another mind-blowing detonation and draining she rises and sheds her robe at last. Now that the easy one has been seen to and the threat that I might come prematurely has been removed it’s her turn: time for the truly depraved and trying and addictively compelling ordeal to get underway.

Though in a perverse way I dread this as well as crave it I don’t hesitate to prepare for it. Now is not the time to try my wife’s patience. Fighting off a post-orgasmic languor I side up fully onto the bed and around to the side. Sitting on the edge I open a drawer in the nightstand to reveal a box of zip-lock baggies and a dispenser of moistened towelettes. Plucking one of each I carefully strip off the condom and toss it in the bag. I wipe myself clean, add the soiled towelette and seal it shut. I toss this in the nearby waste basket and hastily strip off my socks. Pulling back the covers I move naked to the center of the bed. Further following established procedure I arrange the pillows so that when I lie on my back one will be under my head the other elevating my hips. Soon I’ve assumed my assigned position.

All my pre-marital life I was the one on top for s*x. Lying submissively beneath my partner has always seemed degrading and even slightly effeminate to me. Unfortunately I have no choice in the matter. Choosing between having s*x this way and no s*x at all is really no choice. Not a month into our marriage and I’ve already given up protesting or even pleading. And as I’ve indicated Amelia gives me scant cause for complaint. Despite my qualms and recent orgasm I remain breathlessly excited as she climbs onto the bed and moves to join me.