Table Top

In the middle…

“Get up on the table,” ordered my wife. Stifling a sight and a protest – I knew it would prove useless – I compiled.

In the beginning…

I drink, sometimes a lot. Not a big deal, I don’t drive drink and I only booze it up on weekends, so it’s never been a problem. In fact, my wife is usually keeping right up with me.

Last weekend, the Two of us hosted a party celebrating our anniversary. About 20 or so people turned up, about the amount of friends you’d expect a couple in their late 30s to have.

The wine – and tequila, rum, vodka and scotch – were flowing like a river in flood, and I was feeling no pain. About 11 pm, so I’m told, is when I had my first flame Dr. Pepper. For those who don’t know, as opposed to those of us who cannot say no, a flame Dr. Pepper is a drink that involves 151 proof Bacardi rum and fire, dropped into a beer. I usually leave the shots that require coordination to the younger crowd, but for some reason, I wasfeeling my oats.

Ten hours later, my arch enemy, daylight, attacked from the east bay window as I awoke with my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth as if I’d brushed with peanut butter. My head felt swollen, my hands Shook and if I could have carved my stomach from my body, I’d glady have done so.

I took in my surroundings. They were familiar, yet unusual.

My wife and I live in a semi-sprawling ranch-style home, meaning there’s only one level. That always worked out well, because no matter how inebriated my wife, guests or myself become, there’s always someone to make sure that everybody gets to a bedroom.

Bu lying in my empty living room looking down at my Florsheim clad feet resting on a sofa cushion, I know something unusual must have happened.

Unfortunately, I was right.

“Cocksucker!”

Seeing as how my wife and I usually stuck with traditional favorites like “Good morning,” I sensed trouble.

Standing above me Wearing her thin, emerald-green kimono-style bathrobe, my wife elaborated.

“Motherfucking cocksucker!”

Intrigued, I reached up with one hand and unstuck my left eyelid, which improved my focus, if not my outlook, considerably.

One of the reasons I married my wife 17 years ago is that she looks even better in the morning that she does at night. And if you don’t think that’s rare, you haven’t spent enough time in dim bars with heavily made-up women.

She’s slight, about 5-3, 105 pounds, with brown hair, tiny breasts and – still – the roundest most heartbreakingly beautiful ass I’ve ever come across, on or in. In the light of this fine morning, she looked gorgeous, but pissed. So very pissed.

It took me three tries to find my voice, but once I did, it was like I’d never lost it.

“And a good cocksucker to you, baby,” I rasped, easily making a bad situation worse. “How are you today.”

“Oh, I’m fine. But then again, I’m not the one with an unsightly bite mark on my leftasscheek.”

I felt my ass through my wool slacks, confused. All felt normal.

“Cocksucker!” She was regressing. “Not your ass, Kay’s.”

I blanked, or I think I blanked. Having no mirror, it was tough to tell.

“Kay’s?”

“Kay’s,” she confirmed.

I didn’t really want to know, but with all signs pointing in that direction – south, I guess, would be the direction – I felt I had little choice. I felt trapped. I felt the flaming Dr. Peppers rising.

“Me?”

“You,” she confirmed.

In the middle….

“Smack!”

I grunted in pain and surprise as my already reddened ass blushed further. I guess I didn’t quite stifle the sight or the protest.

“Get your sorry ass face down on that table right now or pack a fucking bag,” she hisssed.

Chilled by the weather and my “new” wife, I compiled as best I could. She’d worked me over pretty well earlier, so my 39-year-old body was somewhat slow to respond. But respond it did, as per orders, I draped my sorry ass face down on the rough surface of the redwood picnic table in our thankfully high-fenced backyard. Being naked, I was ill-prepared for the 60-degree night air.

My wife walked to the front of the table and grasped my wrists. The boots, which added at least four inches, clicked loudly on the cement with each purposeful step. Yanking with all her strength, she pulled me forward.

I stifled a scream as my balls and cock rode up with me until I was centered on the table, my genitalia actually resting in the hole normally reserved for the table umbrella. Sarah must have removed it earlier. As she ducked under the table, I caught a glimpse of divine cleavage fashioned by the push-up bra she wore beneath a half-buttoned white dress shirt.

She caught me and barked out a sardonic laugh.

“You can look all you want, Paul, but you’re sure as hell not touching.”

Touching, however, was exactly what she was doing. I felt her cold hand grapp my confused cock and raw balls. She pulled down, not quite roughly, and I felt something tickling behind my scrotum. The sensing snaked around and around my balls, over the base of my cock several times, and stopped.

A heartbeat later, I entered a world of pain.

I tried to swallow my scream as a noise – because that’s the only way to describe it,a noise – was pulled tight, dividing my cock and balls from my body and drawing them down.

“Unnnnnnggggghhh!”

I whimpered softly in pain as she tugged lightly, working hard beneath the table. Through eyes blurred with anguish, I watched her stand up and survey me calmly.

Her tone was even. Amused, maybe, or possibly uninterested.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said. “How bad can it be. It’s only a little pain. Christ, no wonder men don’t have kids.”

I bit my tongue. It seemed no time to take a misogynistic stress. I was having enough troubles with prone.

She smoothed her long skirt down and sat next to me onthe table. Trailing the back of her smooth nails down my thighs, she caressed the hair that fluttered in the gentle breeze.

I concentrated on the smell of her nearby thighs, pushing away the pain. All wisecracks and jokes were gone from my mind as I strained to hear her soft voice.

She laid out my situation in short, no-nonsense sentences.

“I put the cinder blocks from the tarp we use to cover the barbecue under the table. Your cock and balls are tied to them. You’re hands are free. Your legs are free. But you’re going nowhere.”

I could hear here trying to contain her anger.

“You hurt me, Paul, now I’m going to hurt you… badly.”

That’s when I knew I was fucked. Fucked so hard, I was torn and bleeding.

Back to the beginning…

To be continued.

I figured I’d wait and see if there’s any positive feedback. If you’d like more, or just want to beg me to stop writing altogether, let me know.