You Asked For It

I looked at my own face in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red, mascara running down my cheeks with the river of angry tears I wished desperately weren't there. Blackened drops had rained down onto my cleavage which was very much exposed in the low cut jumper I'd worn for his benefit.

After weeks of tension, arguing, making up, more arguing and general chaos, I was getting heartily sick of this latest period of his "issues".

I'll back track and explain. My husband, the love of my life, suffers from depression. He is one of those people who is incredible, strong, intelligent and capable, until something hits him and he goes... well kind of wonky. Mostly he just retreats into himself, but because he has a job, a wife and now children, he can't keep doing that all the time.

He tries hard to be even and okay with us, and to his credit, when he is angry or sad, he's never violent. I don't think he has it in him to hurt any of us physically, and I know that when he does hurt us mentally, the guilt just drives him further into the depressed state he's fighting.

He is a beautiful man on the inside and outside. He just doesn't see it. There's a long and complicated history to that, but suffice it to say, when he does go through a period of depression, it usually lasts between 3 and 9 months, and it happens maybe once every 2 to 3 years.

We're in the midst of one of those phases now, but it was only really 2 years ago that he finished up with the last depressed period, and during that, he basically had a complete mental breakdown. I held everything together the best I could. I became rather messy myself. It was just too much to ask of me, as much as I wish I had the strength to deal with it all and still stay sunny for him.

In the end, he changed jobs, did some therapy and hopped back on track. We've lived quite happily for those 2 years. Happily of course, barring the jolt in trust I'd suffered and the fact that I managed to develop myself a bit of a negative attitude as a result of always having to be the adult and always having to be okay, or else everything became 'my fault'.

I know that he doesn't really think that, but my man, lets call him Joe for the sake of this, tends to blame others (ie: me) when he's hurt or upset. He knows I'm a safe person, I'm not going anywhere, so it's okay for him to blame me when things aren't okay. When he feels better, he gets the guilts over hurting me, but in the last few years, he's forgotten the art of actually apologising. He doesn't want to revisit our fights, he just wants to move on. Frankly, I'm so tired of the upset that I after a little while, I just want to move on too. Sometimes I get angry with myself for not demanding an apology, but really, that would just spark another fight, and who has the energy for that. When we're moving forward, he's reasonable, rational, loving, smiley, even a little silly. I'd rather just enjoy those times.

This time, as things started getting to him, Joe had stopped wanting sex. I am in my mid-thirties, so I'm enjoying a huge surge in my drive. I want sex all the time, and I'm doing all I can (in the midst of the sometimes wracking exhaustion of our daily life) to keep things going. It is probably true to say that I haven't always pulled out all of the stops, but I've suggested, stroked, kissed. I have tried to strip off at the end of the day in a nonchalantly seductive manner. It's usually lost on a man who is already reading a book.

In amongst it all, I miss the sexy, dirty man Joe was. He's still in there. When we do have sex, it's basic but it is still good. He knows my body quite well. I think the thing I miss the most is when he'd talk to me. He used to know by instinct what to say. He kept it simple and told me how beautiful I was, how delicious my tits were, that he wanted to stretch my pussy with his cock. When we were having sweet, love making type sex, he'd keep it clean, respectful and sweet. He'd make me feel like a princess. I'd come over and over just at the sound of his beautiful smooth voice panting that he loved me.

Life changes around us, and we forget to see each other. I suppose that's what has happened to some extent. I know that to my best girlfriend, I've said regularly lately that Joe has his head firmly shoved up his ass. He can only see what is going on in his world. Unfortunately, because I know him, and have watched him go through this awful pain, I can't blame him. I love him and I would do anything to take it away. However, because I'm not a depressed person, I often find it hard to relate to the notion of not just picking yourself up by your bootstraps and getting on with things, or at least seeing the people around you, those who love you.

The experts assure me that depression is an illness, and I understand and accept that. I have no more chance of curing him than I do of curing cancer, so I have to work out how to live with it. The hard thing is, where do you draw the line between "He's guarding himself because he is unwell" and "He's being so self involved that it's self destructive"?

This week, I'd been working on trying to amp up our sex life. I figured I was the one with the need, I should take responsibility for getting things happening. I didn't want to rest on my laurels and whine about what I wasn't getting, so I had a little think, and decided that a bit of pornography might just get his juices flowing.

I had found a website with a tonne of sexy stories and I had spent some time during the week reading them. There were some that didn't really do it for me, but others that added to the mounting sexual frustration that I have been living with.

Honestly, since I hit 35, I'd be delighted to be good and fucked at least once a day. There are days where sitting in my office chair is enough to head me toward an orgasm.

I enjoyed reading these stories and getting myself off when I could get time away from Joe and the kids. That wasn't nearly often enough for me, but it did hold me over for a few days. I broached the subject with Joe and he seemed to be happy. He'd said, "Yes, well it would be nice to know what you want in bed."

I must admit, even that comment had pissed me off. I'd been telling him all along! Mrs Sarcasm took over inside my mind and I just wanted to blurt out "Well it would help if you'd extract that huge cranium from your rectum! Perhaps then you'd hear what I've been telling you!" Of course, I didn't say that. I knew myself enough to know that that wasn't going to help. I was just angry and I needed to get the hell over it if I had any hope of making things better.

Let me sidetrack again. I promise, I'll get to the good stuff soon! I need to make it clear that I didn't want to have an affair. I know that some people would suggest leaving or screwing around, especially if they could take a quick look into the size of my libido. Those were not solutions I was happy with.

For all of his faults, Joe is truly a lovely person. He and I have enriched each other far more than we've hurt each other. I am still attracted to him physically and I know full well that what I want is sex with HIM. I am also by no means perfect, and I believe when you choose to spend your life with a person, have children with them, you do everything you can to make that work.

Walking out is just not an option for me unless he gives up on trying to get better, or the situation is too toxic for the kids. I may have promised him "in sickness and in health" but they didn't get a choice, and we've agreed that our children have to come first.

So back to why I stood in tears, studying mascara stained droplets on my boobs, angry as all hell and wanting to do something about it.

I had shared some stories with Joe, stories that turned me on, some that I thought might work for both of us. We had sex a couple of times over the week which was more than it had been. I was happy, he was happy. We'd even thrown in the odd new move which was fantastic. I still needed more orgasms than I was getting, but I figured that that was my problem, and as long as we were happy, connected and having a bit more sex, I was content.

I asked Joe to share some stories with me that he liked, and he had spent a few days looking through what the website had to offer. Then he found one that he wanted me to read, and sent me the link.

I waited until the kids were safely in bed (I'm not good at reading sexy stories while the kids are around. It's very hard to sit there pretending to be a proper Mummy when you have rock hard nipples and are dripping wet inside your panties).

I started reading the story Joe had sent me. I knew it was a Bondage type story and that didn't particularly bother me. We'd experimented at home a little with tying each other up, light spanking and similar things in the past. It was good. I was happy to have a bit of that in our relationship. I'm certainly not the raunchiest woman alive, but I am not afraid of trying a few new things. I would rather do that than have my sex life become stale.

The story started to take a few turns I didn't like particularly. Though it had been written from the perspective of a woman, clearly it was written by a man. His knowledge of what certain acts actually felt like was a bit dodgy to say the least. I know some people really do get off on pain, and I myself don't mind a bit of dancing around that pleasure/pain line, but there's a point where it goes beyond titillating and heads straight toward downright painful.

The female star of the story spent the majority of the story as the submissive, but she didn't seem to know what she was getting into in the beginning. Now, I may be new to the scene and naïve, but as far as I could tell, you can't just throw someone into full blown bondage and have them respond. They need to be interested in it. They need to have the right elements in their psyche.

I'd also personally been through a couple of close encounters with people who weren't trying to have me join the Bondage lifestyle so much as literally hurt me, humiliate me and abuse me. I am not someone who enjoys being at others mercy for real. I'm aware that sometimes I am at Joe's mercy emotionally in my marriage, but then, to some extent, most people in relationships are. I had also made that choice myself to allow some of it in an effort to keep the peace and keep my husband relatively happy.

So, I tried to read, I really did. I paid attention to the parts of the story where the female lead was having her pussy licked and fingered, I imagined some of the voyeuristic elements of the story with some enjoyment and I even didn't mind the anal portions of the story. I don't mind a bit of anal, as a matter of fact, I invite it willingly from time to time.

Unfortunately for me, there were some parts to the story I didn't like. There was blackmail, threats of rape, emotional turmoil and some plot twists that I just couldn't believe enough to enjoy.

Everyone finds stories they don't particularly get off on. I knew Joe wouldn't mind if this one didn't do it for me, but I guess, I was tired. I guess I was surprised at the level of humiliation and pain featured in this story. I knew Joe had meant this for me. I didn't know how much, but I guess I was shocked and incensed at the thought that he might want me hurt, humiliated or even gang raped for the sake of his pleasure. I couldn't believe he'd really think this way.

At a certain point he became aware that I'd stopped reading. He'd been watching TV, and I'd had my laptop out to read the story near him. "Well? What did you think?" He asked, obviously anticipating a happy response.

"Sorry Honey, I don't understand." I started, a little dazed. "This is awful! Did you actually read it all?"

"To be honest, I only read the first couple of pages. Why? What bothered you?"

I started to explain, and there was most definitely a distressed edge to my voice. A swirl of thoughts from my immersed brain came tumbling out of my mouth before I'd had the chance to consider how to frame them for him. As I spoke, I could see his eyes grow cold, his expression became stone and he faced the TV silently.

"I'm sorry, I just don't..." I started to try to soothe things.

"Forget it! I won't share this kind of stuff with you in future if that's the reaction you are going to have." He was obviously furious.

I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. There was nothing wrong with me telling him that some of the story wasn't to my liking, but I'd allowed my shock to take over. That kind of lapse in my emotional control was a total no-no in this phase of Joe's depression. He was just too sensitive to take any criticism from me, even if it wasn't directed at him. In this case I guess he took it personally because he'd tried to share a sexual fantasy with me and it had bombed out so terribly.

"I am sorry..." I stammered. "I didn't mean it like that! I was just shocked!"

"No, forget it. I don't want to talk about it." His voice was hard and controlled.

I felt powerless. I felt terrible that this man, whom I loved with every part of me, could be so hurt by me, and that it seemed that part of him wanted to do things to me that would leave me in pain and humiliated. It wasn't what I knew of him at all. I was so confused that I felt physically weak.

My insides ached knowing it was the beginning of another fight. We'd had a few good days, but we'd been fighting a lot, and I hated it. I couldn't sit around being a doormat, but when he was angry with me, I felt like Joe could shut down, like he would just walk away from me, like I was out in the cold and the longer I left it, the less he'd be inclined to ever listen to me and help me fix things.

I pressed on. I couldn't leave it like this. "I just don't understand what part of that story you liked. I want to know what part turned you on."

"I don't feel like talking about it right now. Maybe later I'll discuss it with you but I'm too angry at the moment." All the while Joe looked at the screen flickering in front of him. He really didn't want me to be there, that much was obvious.

I sat in the lounge chair for a few moments, gathering my resolve. I wanted to stay and fix things with him, but I knew he wasn't ready anyway, and I also had the urge to flee. I needed to burst into tears and get some of this sick feeling out. I breathed deeply, committing myself to walking out of the room and going to bed to have a good cry.

As I stood and walked across the room I heard him open his mouth to speak. I expected him to say something to reassure me that we would fix this, that he still knew who I was and that he was still my Joe. Instead he said "I thought you were more tolerant and worldly than this."

He may has well have slapped me. The derogatory tone was palpable. I don't, to this day, know if Joe has any idea how he sounds when he speaks to me this way, but it kills me every time. To be such a loving devoted husband and father, to know how to make me feel treasured and honoured and trusted, and then to turn on me like this. I know to some this doesn't seem like much of an insult, but to me, at that moment, I felt misunderstood, tired and ... victimised.

So I stood there in the bathroom adjoining our bedroom as Joe continued to watch TV. I suddenly realised as I looked up from my low cut top, worn with the sole intent of gaining Joe's attention, that there was a tired old looking woman staring at me. Her makeup had worn off. Her hair had been thrown back into a bun at some point in the afternoon to keep it out of the way, and she was, frankly a little on the chubby side.

She looked fucking pathetic. She wasn't me, she couldn't have been. This worn out pathetic woman could not possibly be the strong, striking redhead I knew I was, at least on the inside.

My self esteem wasn't always perfect, but I know that I'm worthwhile, relatively attractive (I have great tits for a mother in her mid thirties, they still sit up and take notice). I also know that other people like me and have positive opinions of me. I have no 'daddy issues'. My parents loved and still love me, my family are good to me and I have friends. I also have Joe who fought hard to get me in the beginning and has, for the most part, been a loving and caring partner, and we have our children who are good and sweet and say lovely kind things to both of their parents. With all of that evidence at my disposal, I am usually fairly sure of myself in life.

This pathetic woman did not match up with the image I had inside of myself, and for some reason, a switch had been flipped. Suddenly, I was boiling over with rage. I realised I was feeling like a victim and the very thought made me furious!

My reddened eyes narrowed. I believe if I'd been another person looking at my own face, I'd have been a little afraid. 'Fuck this!' I thought to myself. 'This is not going to go down like this!'

The anger was building and I was forming a plan. There would be no walking out, no tyre slashing, no screaming. I was going to take matters into my own hands. I was going to not only reclaim myself, but take back my husband and the life I had worked my ass off to build.

I knew that what I had in mind could go either way. He could either be putty in my hands and things could be put back together, or he could lose his shit at me, and, I suspect, that might just be the end of us. Again I thought 'Fuck it!'

I had visions of slapping the shit out of Joe, continuing harder and harder until I felt better or he begged for forgiveness. The vision didn't shock me. I frequently use my mind as my playground and live out things I would never do there. It's a safe way of dealing with feelings that need to be dealt with. But as I thought this way, I realised I was, to use a man-term, losing wood.

I didn't like the feeling of loss of control that my unbridled anger was fuelling, and the thought of true violence has always sickened me. First and foremost, I knew that I actually do love this man with everything I am, and so I could never hurt him this way deliberately. I didn't want to hurt him, I was just utterly pissed and I didn't want to be hurt anymore. I wanted the respect he used to give me. So it was time to take it.

I started by washing my face and removing the last of the worn, smeared makeup I had left on. I moisturised and applied a whole new face. Smooth even skin, carefully applied blush, darkened, well-lined eyes. Then I rooted around in my makeup bag for the darkest shade of lipstick I possessed. I applied it carefully and perfectly on my full lips. I wanted my makeup to look crisp, pristine and just a little severe.

I went hunting in my bedroom drawer and found some lingerie. A one piece suit in pink that had black lacings up the front, ending just under the breast. The cups of the outfit were wired but there was no fabric over them, so my breasts would be supported and perky but completely bare. Perfect!

I went back into the bathroom and took off the low cut top, jeans and underwear that I had been wearing. I slipped into the outfit, (I guess you'd call it a teddy), which was very high cut at the bottom, and the crotch split in two. The crotch part was all so narrow, you could easily see the lips of my pussy either side of the fabric. It was sort of cradling my clit, gently rubbing it. Had I have been calmer, I'd have purred like a kitten and relaxed into the sensation, but the 'Fuck this' attitude had taken over and I had things to do.

I had been messing around in the drawers in our room, trying to find the things I needed and then I'd gone into the bathroom and locked the door. Joe must have heard because he came into the bedroom and tried to open the bathroom door.

"What the hell are you doing?" I suspect he thought I may have been packing my things and was probably puzzled when he came in to find the room unruffled. I'd been careful to shut all of the drawers as I'd made my preparations.