Portrait Of A Wife As A Middle-Aged Woman free porn video

Portrait of a Wife as a Middle-Aged Woman

by Ashley B. D. Zacharias

I don’t understand my husband. Not at all. I’m not a pretty woman, not a young woman, not a sexy woman but I try to be a good wife. I cook a nice dinner every night. I keep the house clean. I have a job; actually, a career as a marketing manager for a chain of furniture stores. Keeping the house clean and raising our two children on top of that took a lot of my energy, but even so, I have never refused sex when Bert asked for it.

I try to be a good wife. I thought that our marriage was a good one. Good enough for me and good enough for him.

But it seems not. Now that our youngest child’s gone to university, he’s telling me that he wants something more from me. He wants to do something kinky. I don’t know exactly what that might be – he hasn’t given me any details – but I can guess. He said that he’d like to try something new. He didn’t use the word kinky – he used the words experiment and different and out of the ordinary – but I know what he means. He means kinky. And I know what kind of kinky stuff he likes. I caught him once, two or three years ago, looking at some porn on the Internet. When I came into the basement, he couldn’t get the screen turned off fast enough and I caught a glimpse of a woman tied up with rope and leather straps. That might be the kind of thing that he wants but I know that it’s not the kind of thing that I want. Simple, ordinary sex is good enough for me. Get in, get out, and get to sleep. That’s what gave us two fine children and a good home to raise them in. We don’t need a lot of foolishness to be happy. Why doesn’t he see how good we have it? If he tries to make me into some kind of exotic sex toy, he’s going to ruin it all.

He looks at me when I get undressed for bed. I hate it when he looks at my sagging breasts and my fat puckered butt. He says that he thinks I’m beautiful, but I know that he’s lying through his teeth. If he thinks that I’m going to believe that story, then he must think I’m stupid. I can look in a mirror. I know that that there’s no fashion model staring back from the glass. My body’s not the stuff of sex fantasies. I’m thirty pounds overweight and twenty years too old to be a sex kitten. He must find me disappointing to look at. He keeps staring at me all the time that I’m naked so I get my clothes off and my red flannel pajamas on, quick as I can. It’s embarrassing. I wish that he’d just roll over and go to sleep before I come to bed. Unless it’s Friday night. Sometimes we do it on some other night and sometimes we miss Friday night, but mostly Friday’s the night. Then, I guess he has to look at me to try to get himself turned on. But I don’t see how he can. I’m not sexy in the glare of the bedroom lamp. I’m better in the dark. All cats are grey in the dark, so, I guess when leave the flannel pajamas under my pillow and crawl into bed nude and turn out the lights and he feels me up, he can pretend that he’s holding a younger and prettier pussy. I expect that all women’s crotches feel about the same, so as long as he keeps his hands down between my legs and doesn’t let them wander up to feel the folds and sags and puffy fat too much, he can think about someone sexier while he gets himself turned on.

But it’s our twenty-first wedding anniversary and he says that he wants a gift from me. I haven’t given him so much as a card for years and now he wants a gift? Sure, he always gets me a box of chocolates and a card but I let him eat most of the candy. I don’t need the calories. He buys the kind of chocolates that he likes because he knows that he’s going to be eating most of them. And I always make love to him on our anniversary night. That’s expected, isn’t it? Even if our anniversary doesn’t come on Friday night. But a gift? We’ve got enough money that he can buy himself whatever he wants whenever he wants. He doesn’t need anything from me. What kind of gift can I buy him that he doesn’t already have?

He tells me what kind of gift he wants from me. He says that he wants an hour of my time. He says that will be the gift that I can give to him: for me to let him do what he wants for an hour.

When he asks, he looks so sad. Worse than sad, he looks scared that I’ll say no. He doesn’t leave me with any choice. I have to say, ?Yes. Okay. As long as you don’t hurt me or anything. I’ll do what you want for an hour. But it can’t be anything disgusting.? I don’t think that he’d hurt me. Not deliberately. He never has before. Not really. He tried to do anal intercourse on me once, and that hurt so I told him to stop when he was only half-way in, and he stopped right away as soon as I told him to, so that was all right. I’m sure that he doesn’t want to hurt me. Pretty sure. Besides, he knows that if he does anything violent, I’ll go to the cops and report him and throw him out of the house. I’ve made that clear from the day we started dating. I won’t ever be an abused wife. He knows that.

But I like our marriage. When he looks at me, kind of sad, I’m afraid that I’ll never get to throw him out because he might leave me first. He should be happy. Real happy. But he doesn’t act happy. It’s that damn porn that he was looking at on the Internet. I hope he doesn’t think that real people act like that. Those’re just pictures. Staged pictures with models. They aren’t real women really being tied up.

He says that he wants an hour of my time on Sunday afternoon and I have to give it to him because I don’t want to be divorced like my friends. Too many women at work have been divorced and I hate to hear them talk about dating. It’s hell for women our age. I see the men they have to bring to our dinner parties. Losers, all. If I have to do something experimental for Bert to keep him happy, I guess I’ll do it. But he better not hurt me. I won’t put up with that. He better remember that.

He brought home some wood. Long boards or planks or something – I don’t know much about wood. He told me to stay out of the basement and he’s been down there all day on Saturday, sawing and hammering. I don’t know what he’s doing down there but I don’t like it. I smell sawdust. He better not get any sawdust in the furnace. It’s a new furnace and I’m going to go ballistic if he gets it all gunked up with sawdust and it doesn’t work right any more.

I could have snuck down on Saturday night or early Sunday morning to see what he had been up to, but I didn’t. He wouldn’t have wanted me to. I’ll let him have his surprise. Besides, it doesn’t make any difference. When he does show me, then I’ll decide if I’m going to go through with our agreement. If he’s made something awful then he can just forget the whole thing. Sometimes he doesn’t have much sense.

I made him a nice lunch on Sunday afternoon. A tuna sandwich with chopped pickles in it. He likes the pickles in his tuna sandwiches and I always try to make food that he likes. I don’t think he appreciates how hard I try to do things that he likes. I make him tacos every couple of weeks because he likes them and I let him watch those awful police shows after my soaps because I know he likes them, too.

After lunch, he leads me downstairs to show me what he’s built. I hope he remembers how much stuff I already do for him. He whispers to me that I promised him an hour and he hopes that I can enjoy it a little bit, too. He says that he’s been really looking forward to this. He says it again: that he hopes that I can enjoy my hour, too. I don’t like the sound of that, but, when he says it, I think he’s being sincere not mean. I think that he really does hope that I’m going to enjoy whatever he has planned.

The room is clean. He’s vacuumed up all the sawdust. I think he even dusted a little. There’s a chair sitting in the room and a big clock hanging on the wall. The clock wasn’t there before. It has a white face and big black hands that say that it’s five minutes before one. I guess his hour starts at one o’clock.

I guess I’m going to do this now. Whatever he has in mind.

There’s something else new in the middle of the room: the thing that really holds my attention. It’s a frame. A big wooden frame that goes all the way up to the ceiling and has rings screwed into the corners. I don’t need a diagram to know what it’s for. I want to say, Oh, no. I’m not doing that! You’re not going to put me in that thing! but he’s looking at me like he loves me and I can’t turn him down. Not after he built the thing. I told him an hour, so I guess I can put up with his kinky stuff for an hour. An hour’s not so long, is it? I mean, it’d be a long time if he was hurting me, but he’s not going to hurt me, is he? I ask him what he has in mind and he says exactly what I’m thinking: that he’s not going to hurt me. He just wants to tie me up a little. Is getting ‘tied up a little’ like getting pregnant a little? Either I’m tied up or I’m not. If I can get away then I’m not really tied up, am I? He’s trying to reassure me. He says that I won’t be too uncomfortable. He just wants to try something simple and easy. Just to see how I like it.

Yeah, right. ‘How I like it.’ I can’t believe that he’s talking about ‘how I like it’ when he knows perfectly well that I won’t like it one bit. I won’t like anything like this. I like simple, straightforward sex once every couple of weeks and that’s it. He knows that. And he knows that I give him sex more often than that, every week, regular as clockwork, just to make him happy.

This isn’t about what I like. This is about what he likes and nothing else.

But he went to all the effort of building this thing. I said that I’d give him an hour so I guess I have to give him his hour. If I refused now, he’d be disappointed. What would he think of me if I said no after he went to all the work of making this thing. It took him all day and it’s only going to take me an hour and then he’ll see that it’s not as much fun as he thought – that I don’t look like the young chicks in the pictures on the Internet, and he’ll get it out of his system.

He wants me to get undressed. He starts to unbutton my shirt, but I push his hands out of the way. ?I’ll do it, myself,? I say. I’m not a baby. I can undress myself more quickly than waiting for him to fumble with my buttons. Even when we were dating, he never could get my bra unhooked without spending twenty minutes fussing around with it. He looks a little hurt and I feel a little bad, even though I know that I shouldn’t. He should have just asked me to undress and not tried to do it to me. I already said that I’d do what he wanted.

When I’m nude, I feel chilly. I don’t know why, it’s summertime and the basement isn’t cold at all. I’m even sweating a bit so I can’t be cold. I must be a little nervous. That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Anyone would be a little nervous when her husband says that he wants to experiment with her and won’t say what the experiment is all about. Anyone would want to know what’s going to happen to them. That’s normal.

He leads me to the frame and has me stand in the center of it. He has a rope; it must have been sitting on the shelf behind the books where I couldn’t see it from the other end of the room. He probably did that deliberately so that I wouldn’t freak out on him. It’s a big, soft, red velvet rope like you’d buy in a fabric store to tie back curtains if you had no taste at all and wanted your room to look real gaudy. Or maybe if you were into a retro sixties thing.

He asks if I trust him as he ties the rope around my wrist. I nod but my nod is a lie. How can you trust a man who’s tying a rope around your wrist? I’ve been married to him for twenty-one years, but the man that I was married to for all that time never tied me up. This is a different Bert than my husband. He might have the same face and the same voice and the same name but he’s not the man I married.

He wraps the rope around my wrist many times, maybe a half dozen, before tying it off, so it’s like a big soft cuff; and he doesn’t pull it very tight, so it doesn’t bite into me. I have to raise my arm so that he can tie the end to the steel ring in the upper corner of the frame. As soon as he finishes and drops his hands from the knot, I relax my arm. It stays pointed toward the corner of the frame. It’s not comfortable. The rope is soft and doesn’t hurt; it just feels weird not being able to put my hand down by my side. It feels not right. And it feels even more not right when he raises my other arm to the other corner and ties it up, too, in the same way.

So I’m standing nude with my arms raised above my head and stretched apart and I look down and see that my breasts are pulled up by my arms so that they look like they don’t droop quite as much as they usually do, but they’re still droopy. They aren’t the breasts that I had when I was a young woman.

Bert kneels at my feet and wraps another length of rope around my ankle the same as he did with my wrists. He asks me to spread my leg out so he can tie it to the lower corner of the frame and I do it without saying anything. It’s too late to fuss about it now. But I don’t like the feeling of my sex being exposed. And I know that I’ll be pulled completely open when he stretches my other leg to the other corner.

When he stands up to get the last piece of rope, I can see a big bulge in his pants. He’s turned on by this. I have no idea what’s going through his mind. No idea at all.

When my last limb is secured to the last ring by the last length of red velvet rope, Bert walks back to the chair, his chair, and sits down in it and stares at me. His stare feels like a punch in the gut. The clock says that it is five after one and I can’t move, not even to cover myself with my hands, so I guess I am going to be stared at for as long as he wants, maybe for a full hour.

I can see him staring at my breasts and I want to cover them with something. I pull on the ropes without thinking, a reflex, but that only pulls the knots a little tighter. The ropes are deceptively soft and pretty; it is easy to forget that they are strong and well-secured. I cannot hide any part of my body. I have no choice but to endure his ogling.

His eyes drop to my crotch and he stares at my sex. My hair down there is beginning to turn grey. Not very grey. Not grey like the hair on my head would be if I didn’t dye it once a month, but a little grey. Not the young grayish brunette like when we got married, but an old lady grey.

He stares and I look hard into his face, trying to see the glint of disgust; trying to read the thought that he wishes that I was younger, prettier, thinner. I see nothing but a man ogling the flesh of a woman who has no way to hide. He looks like a man in lust. I don’t understand him at all. I can’t guess what is going on in his mind.

He looks at my face, long, deep, and finally speaks. He says that he loves me. He sounds like he means it. He probably does. He’s stayed married to me for long enough. Then he says that I am beautiful with equal conviction, but I do not believe that.

When the hands on the clock reach one fifteen when he stands up and walks behind me. I do not turn my head to follow him, but keep facing forward, watching the slow sweep of the second hand on the big clock face.

My arms feel tired and I try to relax them. I have been tense, holding my arms up when I did not have to. I let them rest in their bonds, let the rope hold their weight instead of using my muscles. My legs are a little tired as well, but I cannot rest them, they have to support me and that takes extra effort when they are stretched wide apart like this.

I am startled to feel a gentle touch on my shoulders. It is the first time that Bert has touched me since he finished tying my last ankle. His touch is light, feathery, and I wait for more. I am not disappointed. He runs his fingers down my back over my shoulder blades, down either side of my spine, to the curve of my buttocks. There, he spreads his fingers and lays his palms flat on my cheeks. Gently, firmly, he squeezes them for a few seconds, almost a massage but not quite. I feel my ass being pulled apart slightly in response to the pressure and wonder if he has separated them far enough to see my asshole. I hope not. I showered this morning and should be clean down there, but who knows what he might find lurking. I tense my buttocks and try to push them together to close my crack against his inspection. He releases me and then rubs his hands over the outside of my hips.

I wish I were fully clothed again but this is his hour and if he wants to feel my body, I will allow it. Allow it? I can’t stop it. Unless I tell him to stop. I’m sure that if I told him to stop, he would untie me right away. But I don’t have any reason to stop him. I mean, I want to. I sure do want to, but I promised him an hour and I can put up with this for an hour, can’t I? And if I don’t tell him to stop, he can do a lot more than this before the minute hand finishes circling the dial. I wonder if he is going to try to make love to me while I am tied in his frame and helpless. We made love the night before last, but I know that he would like to do it again. It seems so soon to me, but he’s always made it clear that he’s like to make love more than once a week. He’s a bit of a beast that way.

I wonder if he could do it to me standing up.

He can do that if he wants. This is his hour. But he better not try to force himself into my asshole. I will tell him to stop if he tries that. I will. I don’t care if it’s his hour or not. I try to clench my butt again but he’s moved his hands back up to my shoulders and I don’t know if he even noticed.

It’s twenty after one when he steps back around the frame and stands in front of my face. He pushes the hair away from my eyes. There is no need for that – my hair is not long, my bangs too short to reach my eyes – but he does it as a gesture of concern anyway: a reminder that I cannot do it myself; that my hands are unavailable for my use; that he has made me dependent on him for even that slight need.

He presses close and hugs me. When his arms wrap around my back and pull me into him, my naked breasts press against the rough fabric of his shirt; his chill belt buckle digs into the fat below my navel. As he pulls me forward, my arms are stretched by the ropes that restrain them but he is gentle and does not pull them hard enough to cause pain. He rocks himself forward, tight against me and leans his head down to press his cheek against mine. For a long time, he holds me, caressing my back lightly with his fingers while he moves slowly against my body, not rubbing against my skin, but moving my skin up and down and around with his motion.

I have not been held and hugged for such a long time since I was a teenager. These days I don’t have any patience for standing and being held for minutes at a time. But, bound into his frame, I cannot pull away. And he has given me no reason to ask him to release me. Having promised him an hour, I have no choice but to endure his affection. I may as well relax into his arms and enjoy his caress as best as I can. I find, to my surprise, that I can enjoy his hug. There is something comforting about being wrapped in my husband’s strong, gentle arms when I am tied to this frame, stretched and helpless. Paradoxically, he makes me feel like he is protecting me even though he was the man who tied me here.

I wish that my arms were free so that I could hug him back. There is something unsatisfying about receiving a hug without being able to reciprocate. But I realize with a twinge of dismay that, if I were free, I would not reciprocate. I would not grab him and hold him for as long as he wanted. If I were free of these ropes, I would be free to push him away. I would be free to climb back upstairs and clean up the kitchen. I would be free to start the laundry. I would be free to watch my usual Sunday afternoon television programs. Is that the wife that I have become? A wife who would rather watch some television personality landscape a stranger’s yard than give her husband, the supposed love of her life, the long intimate hug that he wants from her?

I suppose that I have. But knowing that does not change me. I am who I am. If this were not my husband’s hour, if I were not tied to this wooden frame, I would give him a quick squeeze and then push him away, impatient to get about my daily duties. I would be helpless to do otherwise. Knowing different does not make me different. I would be lying to myself if I said that it did.

Even now, even as I am enjoying his hug, I am watching the clock, seeing the minute hand drop past the nadir of the dial and begin to climb back up toward the top; toward the minute that I will be untied and be free to climb the stairs out of the basement and get on with my day.

I hate that I am thinking about getting away instead of reveling in the intimacy that my husband is pressing on me, but that does not change my thoughts. When someone asks you not to think about crocodiles, then you cannot stop thinking about them. When I have a clock in front of me, I cannot stop thinking about the time, waiting for the time to pass and the hand reach the twelve. Would it be different if I were facing the other way? If I could not see the clock? No. It would be worse because then I would be wondering if the hour had already passed and wondering my husband, my loving husband, were abusing my trust and keeping me prisoner for longer than we agreed. I have to see the clock to know that I should not be fretting about the time passing. It is a conundrum with no answer.

He has hugged me long enough to satisfy himself. He steps back and puts his hands on either side of my face. For the first time since he told me that he loves me a quarter ago, he speaks again. He says the same thing. ?I love you.? And he says it with the same sincere tone as last time. I believe that he still means it.

?I love you,? I reply. The statement comes automatically because I cannot leave his love hanging in the air between us without giving it back. But that does not make my words false. I do love him. Deeply. Maybe more now than I did before he tied me up. That conundrum might have an answer but I don’t think that I’m clever enough to find it.

Because I am distracted.

He kisses me now. Brushes his lips against mine, sucks lightly on my lower lip, and then slides his tongue slowly along the edges of my teeth as I relax my mouth to admit him. He kisses me for a long time, standing apart from me and leaning forward so that the only parts of us that touch are his hands on my cheeks and his mouth on my mouth. I part my teeth to allow his tongue to enter deeper if he wants, but he does not push inside. I give him the tip of my tongue and we taste each other. I have not tasted my husband in a long time. He tastes good and I want more. I push into his mouth, wishing that I could hold his head, too, but my arms are held fast to the frame, held apart by his velvet ropes.

We kiss and then we kiss more. I had forgotten how much I liked being kissed and kissing back. I want to keep kissing but he breaks free of my mouth to slide his face downward. I hate having my neck tickled and, when his lips slide over that tender skin, squirm as far away as the ropes allow. I want to tell him to stop. I would but he keeps moving down and the tickling ends before I have to speak. As his lips pass my collarbone, I am glad that I did not object. It’s his hour. It would be unfair for me to object to anything reasonable. We both understand that that is the real gift that I’m giving him: that I will not object unless he does something that I can not tolerate. And I can tolerate having my neck kissed for a second. Not for much longer than that, but for that one second, okay.

I have never understood any man’s fascination with a woman’s breasts. They’re just little sacks of skin filled with fat and glands, no different than any other bit of skin on the body. Except after the children were born and I was breast feeding them. Then they were milk dispensers. During that time, they became special to me and stopped being special for him. I was surprised to find that Bert lost interest in my boobs when I was nursing. The first time that I suckled a baby, I wondered if he would want to suck from my teat, too. Only a few weeks earlier, he had been all over my big pregnant woman boobs whenever I let him near me. But, as soon as the baby was born, he seemed to stop caring about them. Then, after the baby was weaned and they dried up, he was all over them again. The same thing happened with the second child. When they dried up the second time and become nothing special to me again, Bert reacted like they were long-lost treasures, annoying me to no end by pawing at me, night and day. I had to keep pushing him off me.

Now, with my hands lashed far apart and high above my head, he is free to paw and lick and suck my boobs to his hearts content. I can’t push him away, so he goes to town on them. Slowly and gently, but with undeniable enthusiasm, he spends minute after minute working on first one and then the other, then the first one again. It’s laughable, but I restrain from expressing disdain. It’s his hour and, if he wants to spend it worshiping my chest, then so be it.

My nipples are not cold and dead, I can feel his ministrations and they are enjoyable enough as long as he is gentle and loving. Despite whatever disdainful thoughts cross my mind, my nipples ignore my brain, thicken, thrust themselves out, and darken in response to his stimulation. Traitorous things, these nipples, they tingle and throb of their own accord. They feel good. I remember eager boys working on my breasts in the front seat of their cars before walking me to my father’s front porch. I am reminded of what it felt like to be young and I want to grab his head and push him hard against my tits to get more. To get as much as I can. But I cannot. His ropes hold my arms far away from my chest. I can neither protect my tits from his attention nor make him work them harder. All I can do is arch my back and push them forward for him to use as he will. Which is what I am doing when he abandons them and slides his mouth further south.

The clock is pushing toward two when his fingers begin probing between my legs, finding the moist, plump lips and pulling my hips close. With my legs spread far by the ropes attached to his frame, my options are limited. I rotate my pelvis upward because that is all that I can do to give his tongue easier access. I’ve never liked any man chewing and sucking on my clit – it’s too sensitive – but this is the last few minutes of his hour and I’m prepared to give him what he wants even if it does not feel as good as proper love making.

He takes less than I expect from my sex, a few slow licks, long gentle caresses with his tongue that part plump lips from one end to the other, tasting me rather than stimulating me, and then he stands once more, holding me and pressing the full length of his body against my spread-eagled form. I feel his rigid prick pressing the front of his pants against my damp crotch and wonder if he is going to honour his promise to release me at the end of the hour. I’m almost hoping that he’ll go into overtime, pull off his clothes, and penetrate me while I’m tied in his frame in this vulnerable position. Almost. My arms are aching and my legs feel weak and tired. As much as I would like him to make love to me here and now, I want to be released into his arms more.

He whispers softly into my ear, ?Thank you. This has been the most wonderful gift you have ever given to me,? then he kneels and frees me. His knots are magical. A couple of gentle tugs and a quick unwinding and I am free to bring my legs under my body to support my weight properly again; another couple of gentle tugs and quick unwindings and I can lower my arms and wrap them around his body.

To my surprise, I have no interest in watching television this afternoon. Or doing the laundry. After spending all that time being hugged, kissed, and caressed, I want to hug, kiss, and caress him back. As I hold him, I ask him if he wants to go up to the bedroom and make love to me. Feeling his erection still pressing through his pants against me, I am not surprised that he wants to do exactly that. I smile at his eagerness.

Later, after making love, I ask him what he intends to do with his frame. He shrugs and says that he supposes that he will dismantle it. I ask him to leave it there for a while. The children won’t be back from university until Christmas and I would not mind if he wanted to frame me again for an hour. He enjoyed it so. Maybe as soon as next Sunday he would like to do it again.

After all, twenty one years of marriage deserves a better gift than an hour only once.

And maybe there’s something in this for me, too.

When I recall standing in the frame, my limbs stretched like Leonardo’s Vituperative Man, being ogled by my husband, I have to accept that, maybe, when he says that he likes looking at me, he is being honest. After all, the only possible reason that he had for looking at me was because he wanted to. I’m not beautiful. I will never believe that lie. But I am a woman and he is a man, so maybe he does like to look as much as he claims. And, if he keeps looking, maybe some day I’ll be able to look into the mirror with his eyes instead of my own. Maybe some day I’ll see the sexy woman that he claims to see.

And, maybe when the kids come home for Christmas, we can find some way to hide the frame away instead of dismantling it. It would be a pity if Bert had to make a brand new one after they went back to university.

Because, maybe if I get tied up often enough and hugged for long enough, I’ll start wanting to be hugged even when I am not restrained.

Maybe.

I’ve been told that stranger things have happened.