Tough Love

Except for the physical descriptions of my husband and I, and the first two paragraphs, this story is 100% fictional. For those of you vocabulary-challenged, that means that after the first two paragraphs NOTHING in it is true!

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As anyone who's been around the block a couple of times knows, different people react differently to different handling. For example, some football (American style, not what we Yanks call "soccer") coaches are "friends" with their players, others are total assholes to the players always putting them down, some handle the players gently, and some show "tough love."

Although I've never played a down of football in my life, except Powder Puff – I'm a woman by the name of Cheryl Simms – I am a big fan and have studied football as a microcosm of how things work in the real world. I actually wrote a paper on it in college in the only course ever taught by the Head Football Coach at our school, when I was the only female in the course. To me, the coaches that exhibit "tough love" almost universally get the best out of their players. That was the thesis of my college paper, which got me an A+ and a hug from the Coach.

Despite my belief in football being a microcosm of real life, I never really applied its principles until a few years ago.

I got married at twenty two, right out of college, to my college flame, Brian Simms. He was tall, blond, handsome, and smart; he still is except that the blond is now more than half gray.

Brian is an ass and legs man. That undoubtedly was what attracted him to me, although I like to think that once he was attracted to me that my personality, intelligence and character were the reasons he married me; but who knows?

Most objective observers would not consider me as good looking as Brian, although the majority of people would consider me better looking than average. My outstanding features – previously mentioned – are my ass and long slender, yet muscular, legs, primarily genetic but also sculpted by years of running, volleyball, tennis, and weight training. Just to set the scene, and not bragging, I have been told by dozens of guys – half of whom were actually sober – that I have world class legs and an "awesome" ass.

Despite our middle class backgrounds Brian and I have become financially well off – that is "rich." I believe the main reason is because we have a treasure trove of common sense, look people in the eye when talking to them, and universally deliver on our promises. Also, I can sell anything and Brian constantly comes up with new good-to-great ideas.

Brian and I lived in a shitty apartment, and drove a clunker, when we were first married to save money to start our own company, called "Cherub," which we did at twenty three. Our main entertainment was fucking each other's brains out, and our only other entertainment – if you could call it that – was working out together, since both were "free." We fucked every night and on Sunday, the only day we didn't work (at least not more than a few hours), we fucked virtually all day. Our libidos had always been high and we were always exceptionally compatible in bed, but those years brought us to new heights.

With Brian's ideas and financial expertise, and my sales acumen and personality, Cherub quickly became successful. I continued to work for Cherub when our first child was born when I was twenty six, and stopped only after our second child was born when I was twenty eight, and we were sure that the major clients I had brought in were there to stay. I personally owned 50% of Cherub even after I stopped working there and Brian owned the other half.

I believe that our time working together caused Brian and I to bond more closely than most spouses – that and our sky-high sex life. Of course we still had our ups and downs, like any married couple with children, but all-in-all our marriage was very good to excellent. We even survived a short fling Brian had in our early thirties.

Having the shitload of common sense that I do I quickly noticed the signs in what I'm sure were the very early stages of Brian's affair. Never being the shy and retiring type I confronted him with it. I told him that if he lied to me – and I'd find out if he did – I'd kick his ass to the curb and he'd be lucky to see the kids every other weekend. I actually would not have followed through with my threat since I loved him too much and the kids needed him, but I was very convincing.

Brian came clean and did his penance wandering "the wilderness" of the local hotels for a month instead of staying in our marital bed. I forgave him with the admonition "two strikes and you're out," his first night back from "the wilderness." Then I rode him reverse cowgirl until he was begging for mercy, and licked his dick clean after he ejaculated into my pussy.

Since I wasn't in love with the bimbo that Brian had nailed a couple of times, and have a vengeful streak, she did not fare as well as Brian did. I could see why he was attracted to her since she was the only woman I had ever seen live that had an ass and legs comparable to mine – and much bigger tits.

Unfortunately for the bimbo, she worked for a company whose biggest single customer was Cherub, so I saw to it that she was fired. Also, long before the days of easy identity theft using the Internet, some savvy bitch – I'll never say who – destroyed the bimbo's already precarious credit rating by getting a loan in her name and not repaying it until it was long overdue.

When the kids were in High School I went back to work, but not at Cherub, rather in an entirely different business; one dominated by men. While we certainly didn't need the money I needed the excitement of selling again. I was instantly successful and now despite our high rolling life style we could live on my earnings alone. Much more rewarding to me than the financial success, however, was what the job did for my ego.

My male co-workers, customers, and suppliers, were constantly ogling my ass and thighs. I do believe that I helped the morale of the vast majority of males I came in contact with by wearing clothing, and striking poses, that did nothing to hide my assets. I was propositioned numerous times but deflected all of the offers in as pleasant a manner as possible; except for the one asshole employee of one of our customers who wouldn't take "no" for an answer and ended up with a bloody nose when he grabbed my ass. His boss liked me and the company I worked for more than the asshole employee. He was transferred to Timbuktu and we didn't lose a dime of business.

Because of the reaction I was getting from the adult male population I was confused when Brian started losing his sex drive, at least as far as I was concerned, when our oldest kid went to college. He also stopped working out at the Health Club, which I did almost every day, and which he had been doing two or three times a week. By then the technology made it easy for a suspicious spouse with money to find out about extracurricular activities, so I set about to do that. I really did not see the same signs as when he had his short fling many years ago, but I wasn't taking any chances.

My technology, and even private investigator, exploration found no other female companionship. It appears that Brian was just plain working too hard and exercising too little. "Why" was a puzzle to me since we both could have quit working the next day and been set monetarily for three lifetimes.

I had talk after talk with Brian over a two year period, and each time the result was the same – he swore that he'd try to cut back, and once the next project (then the next one, then the next one) was finished we'd be back to normal. The counseling I suggested was, according to him, "a waste of time that I don't have."

When our youngest child went to college things got worse. Our sex life was essentially non-existent, so vastly different than the rich sex life we had up until only a few years ago that it was really hard on me. I went to see a psychologist, a marriage counselor, and a psychiatrist, to see if I was the cause of the problem; all said I wasn't. As far as a possible solution was concerned, my discussions with my psychiatrist brought me back to my college thesis – "tough love" coaches are the most successful.

I never needed to apply "tough love" with my kids since a normal nurturing and parenting relationship worked out well for them and me. With the possible exception of my actions at the time of Brian's short fling I never applied "tough love" to our relationship either. My shrink and marriage counselor both said that it was needed now.

After numerous unsuccessful attempts to even get Brian to have a meaningful discussion, let alone go to see my shrink or marriage counselor, because he was setting up another (our fourth) office for Cherub in a city 800 miles away, I implemented my plan.

When Brian finally was home one Saturday morning and was talking about leaving within a couple of hours to go to work, I coaxed him to sit in the sturdiest chair in our house, a "decorative" all steel article of furniture, if you can believe that such a thing exists. He didn't notice the handcuffs on an arm and leg of the chair. While he was sipping a homemade Frappuccino I had made for him I snapped the other half of the cuffs into place before he knew what was going on.

"What the hell, Cheryl, why are one of my hands and one of my ankles handcuffed to this chair."

"You won't sit down and talk with me, so now I'm making you. After I've said my piece and shown you the documents I have I'll let you go – but not until then," I said with a stern tone.

"I have to get to the office soon..." he started to say when I interrupted.

"Shut the fuck up, Brian. I don't give a damn about the office. You'll listen or I'll leave you cuffed and gagged the entire day. Got it?" I screamed.

"OK, don't get your panties in a bunch," he meekly replied.

"Our married life is in the toilet. We haven't had sex in seventy two days, and it's not because I haven't tried," I growled. I had been keeping track of everything on a calendar, I wasn't making the seventy two days thing up.

"Yes we have," he responded, his eyes lighting up. "You gave me a blow job just a couple of weeks ago."

Holding up my calendar I barked "I gave you a blowjob thirteen days ago, and another one forty days ago, and you turned me down for three others in the last seventy two days. WE – that is both of us, or even just me – have not had sex in seventy two days. And who the hell ever heard of a guy turning down a blowjob, let alone three in two months?"

"Well, we're not kids anymore, we're forty six and over the hill sexually," he said trying to calm me down.

"Forty six is far from over the hill; for some people it is prime fucking age. We should be fucking at least twice a week, and having oral every time we fuck," I bellowed. "I need sex, Brian! I'm going crazy!"

"Well maybe I'm just not as attracted to you anymore," he said in anger, obviously as a defense mechanism. He realized it was a bad mistake as soon as it came out of his mouth, but it was too late.

"I'm glad you said that, Brian," I sneered, "because there are dozens of guys who are attracted to me. See this ass and these thighs?" I said, pulling off my skirt and panties and leaving me with only my high heels and a short top on. "Guys want these all the time – they're still as awesome as the day you first fucked me!"

He simply gulped and got wide-eyed.

"Here's the way it's going to play out, Brian. Here is a legal separation agreement, which I have already signed. Since both of our kids are eighteen or older, since their college and graduate school expenses are already covered by their trust funds, and since we both have shitloads of money, custody and asset division are not problems," I said. Then I got in his face – my bottom half still nude – and continued. "What this separation agreement says is that you have four months to cut back on work and agree to sex at least twice a week, or we get a divorce. The only reason I'm not simply filing now is because I still love you and really want to work it out. But I'm not a female eunuch and I can't go on like this."

"But, Cheryl..." he started to say.

"Shut the fuck up, Brian. Read the agreement!"

He started reading. It was very simple as separation agreements go, only two pages long, double spaced. For the separation, if it resulted in divorce, I wasn't making him buy out my half of Cherub's stock but I gave him the option to match any offer I had for it if I wanted to sell. Our assets besides Cherub stock would be split 50-50, and the kids could live with either one of us or split time, their choice. I had already rented another house a couple of miles away. Predictably, the most important parts were the ones he would have difficulty with.

Brian's eyes got wide and he started choking up when he got to the penultimate substantive paragraph. "What's this about either of us is free to pursue other sexual endeavors during the term of the separation?"

"You're a smart man, Brian – it means what it says," I sneered.

He looked even more disconsolate when he got to the last substantive paragraph, and the post-nuptial contract appended to the separation agreement. "How can I agree to a post-nuptial contract where my work hours are limited and where if we don't have sex at least twice a week consequences ensue. I'm trying to run a business!" he moaned, more than yelled.

"Learn to delegate, Brian. Get a real life. You could stop working tomorrow and we'd have more money than we really need for three lifetimes," I calmly but firmly said.

Once Brian sat back in the chair, deflated and his eyes back in his head, I uncuffed him.

"Brian, sign the separation agreement by tomorrow morning. I'm leaving for my new, rented, house now – so you can go to your precious work – but will come back tomorrow morning. If you have signed the separation agreement I will have it filed with the Court Monday, we'll split according to its terms for four months, and by then you can decide if you will agree to the post-nuptial contract. If you don't sign the separation agreement I'll file for divorce on irreconcilable differences next week."

Brian groaned "But Cheryl, what's with this sex thing? Aren't I attractive to you?"

"Yes, you are – even if I'm not to you," I said sarcastically. "But I'm not getting fucked by you, and I need to get laid badly. In four months you may decide that I am attractive to you again, and you'll get your life back and stop working so hard. Maybe if you get laid a few times during the separation by some bimbos your sex drive will return. If not, that's what divorce is for!"

With that I put my panties and skirt back on and walked out the front door, all my clothes and personal items having previously been transferred to my new house. Brian started to plead as I left but I just waved my hand without even looking back.

When I got back home the next, Sunday, morning, Brian wasn't there. The signed separation agreement was, however, along with this note. "Despite what you might think I do love you Cheryl, and I'm really going to try and change in the next four months."

Monday I had my attorney file the separation agreement, told my shrink that I had put the first phase of my "tough love" scenario into place, then went to see my best and oldest friend, Janet, aka "Amber Love."

"Amber," as I'll call her, was an important part of my plan. I really, really needed to get laid badly but there was no way I could deal sexually with any of the men that I came in contact with during work or our social gatherings. Also, I needed anyone I was to hook-up with screened and anonymous.

Although Amber graduated cum laude from college with me she found within a few years as a corporate account manager and a messy divorce that the normal work world wasn't for her. She started working as a high end – meaning $800/hr. in 2013 dollars – call girl then started her own "firm." Few people she socialized with (including even Brian) knew this because she was very discrete; they thought that she was in pharmaceutical sales. I was aware of her profession almost from the start because she knew that I wouldn't judge her, and we were always best friends and honest with each other.

Amber had dozens of high class escorts of all ages who worked for her, as well as her own team of researchers. Everyone was employed by a Cayman Islands Corporation that Amber had set up, and had every indication of respectability, including paying taxes. The researchers got all background information on a prospective client, and the clients were required to have periodic STD testing at their expense. One reason for Amber's success, beside strict confidentiality and totally awesome escorts, was that condoms were not "required" as long as there was a negative STD screening within a week of the "date" and the escort was OK with that.

Amber told me at my earliest planning stages of my "tough love" separation that there were dozens of regular clients who would love to give me a roll in the hay, especially since I would NOT be charging them.

I told Amber that for me to hook-up with someone I would have to be sure that they weren't presently married, that they had a negative STD screening within the past week, and that I would first meet them for dinner. "Nothing" might happen if there was anything "hinky," or if I needed a second meeting to be sure. To make certain that there could never be even a reasonable allegation of prostitution every "date" and I would split the dinner tab and any hotel tab.

If the response I got was any indication, there are a lot of horny unmarried ass and thigh guys in our major metropolitan area. Amber had shown – not given – my bikini photos, which she had professionally taken, to a number of likely candidates. She showed me more than a dozen photos of guys who were salivating at the chance of nailing me. I was shocked that two were in their thirties, one in his twenties. The others were in their forties and fifties, probably average age forty five.

"Go for it!" Amber giggled as she saw me looking at the photo of a thirty four year old for the third time. "He's a nice guy. He'd have been married long ago but his problem is that he's got a commitment phobia; but that doesn't mean shit to you. I'd fuck him myself but I would have a hard time keeping order with my escorts if I did that."

I met "Chris" – I never learned his real name, and didn't care especially since I was known as "Sybil" – two days later, on a Friday night at an out-of-the-way restaurant. I was nervous as hell, but self-confident since I was wearing my most "intoxicating" ass-legs outfit.

After the first five or ten uncomfortable minutes, Chris and I found some mutual ground and got along great. He was funny and charming. He also made no attempt whatsoever to hide the fact that he loved my ass and thighs. When we danced after dinner and before desert he held me tight and rubbed my ass and thighs through my clothes. I was so fucking horny at that point that I didn't care who saw us. When we returned to the table for desert he stuck his hand under my dress, stroked my bare right thigh, then probed the camel toe of my soaking wet panties.

We didn't finish desert, went right next door to the four star hotel he had confidently already reserved a room at, and mauled each other in the elevator on the way up to his room on the 23rd floor.

Since I had gone without sex for so long, all he had to do was bring his tongue into contact with my bare, engorged clitoris to initiate my first orgasm. When he started fucking me with a very nice looking dick, about the same size as Brian's, I fucked back with passion I hadn't felt for at least six years. I pulsed my pussy muscles, wrapped my thighs around his waist, and bucked so hard that we almost flopped off the bed. By the time that we had fucked a second time, in the middle of the night, he could have done anything that he wanted to me and I would have let him.