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 You told me that you would never touch me.  You reduced us to this.  When
we first met, I thought you were sweet.  You were so beautiful.  I thought
you were the kind of man I had always waited for.  With your usual insight
you looked me over, and saw the victim inside of me.  I suppose that you
had it all planned from that first day we met in the mall.  Maybe you've
done this before.  It wouldn't surprise me.

   You convinced me to let you move into my apartment.  I was so eager to
have you there.  I wanted to share my space with you.  I wanted to share my
self and my body with you.  After the first few nights I began to realize
what a mistake I had made.  It wasn't the women, the strangers you brought
home to fuck in your room.  The loud groans and rhythmic shifting of the
bed humiliating me as I lay in the darkness of my own room.  I could have
found a way to accept your other lovers.  If you would only have made me
one of them.

   It amazes me now to realize how quickly, how unconsciously I submitted
to you.  I washed your clothes, I cooked for you, anything for the reward
of your smile.  An offhand comment about my hair or clothes was enough to
send me scurrying to find a look that would please you.  Still, you refused
to touch me.  Even by accident.  If my hip brushed against you as we both
sat on the couch watching t.v.  you pulled away.  And yet, somehow, you
managed to make me feel there was a chance of something happening between
us.

   I recall the first time I saw your body.  I was sitting in the living
room.  We were talking as you undressed in your bedroom.  There was a
mirror, whose reflection I could see through the angle of the doorway.  I
watched you as you took off your shirt, revealing the smooth, sleek lines
of your chest.  I recall my breath catching in my throat as you slipped off
your shorts.  I blushed, and continued to watch as the tuft of blond hair
at the top of your sex was revealed.  If there was any part of me that had
not fallen by that point, it was swept away, watching every part of you
revealed to me.

   Of course, that was typical of our relationship.  Funny, isn't it, that
such an intimate unveiling should happen only through a reflection on cold,
silvered glass.  Now, I know that it was no accident.  Like everything else
you did, the positioning of the mirror was deliberate, set for it's effect
on me.

   It was a longing for revenge that made me start picking up men on the
street.  I wanted to show you that even if you didn't want me, there were
others that did.

   I gave myself over to anyone willing to take me.  Always picturing your
face, always imagining your hands in place of theirs.  Imagining that you
were listening in the dark as I tried to take pleasure from those others.

   Sometimes, at night, I would creep out of bed and make my way to the
outside of your door.  I would put my ear to the painted wood and listen,
straining to hear your breathing as I masturbated myself.  I never tried to
be quiet.  I wanted you to hear me, always hoping that the door would open,
and you would finally invite me inside.  I realize now that you were
listening all along.  I'm sure it amused you to know how pathetic you had
made me.  You wanted to keep me wanting you.  It must have been easy for
you, having me on a string.  Were you saving me for a rainy day?

   Unlike you, I hadn't planned for what happened.  There was, at first,
nothing deliberate in what I did.  In fact, it really wasn't like me at
all. Ask anyone.  It was your fault really, things could have been
different.  If when you came home, and found me crying with frustration,
you had only let me hold you.  I couldn't help myself, I needed to touch
you at last.  When you pushed me away again, something closed up, reversed
itself inside of me.  I remember hitting you, not flailing at you, but a
real, solid punch with weeks of disappointment behind it.  Knocking you to
the floor, stunning you for a few crucial moments.

   It would be hard to say which one of us was more surprised.  As it
happened, I recovered first.  I don't know why I chose to bind your hands
with my pantyhose.  It seemed appropriate, using that intimate fabric,
still warm with my body heat.  You tried to stand then, but the position of
your arms made you clumsy.  It was easy to push you back onto the floor.  I
sat on your chest.  I slid myself forward, pressing down onto your
shoulders, my skirt riding up over my hips.  As I ground myself against
you, you struggled, but I was stronger than you knew, stronger it seems,
than I knew.  All of it was so insane, but I didn't care.  I was going to
rape you if I could.

   All that I wanted was your touch.  Having you helpless beneath me,
feeling the sparse, rough hairs of your chest tickling the inside of my
thighs was heaven.  There was nothing else I could have done.  My need
drove me.

   You were yelling, I remember that.  Using words I'm sure were always on
the tip of your tongue.

   Bitch.

   Whore.

   It was so easy, so pleasurable to silence you by sitting on your face.
Every movement, every protesting tremor of your jaw rippled through my sex.
Your chin nestled between my buttocks.  Your lips, wet with saliva, then my
discharge as I came.  You could have bitten me.  What would have happened
if you had?  I kept your head trapped there, savoring the warmth of your
breath.  Each exhalation like a liquid volcano, searing me through the
cleft of my mound, teasing the hairs below my stomach.

   Maybe it was that unexpected heat.  Like putting your hand into a bowl
of warm water.  Only a slight relaxation was necessary, and I was pissing
onto your face.  You choked, tried to spit, and finally could do nothing
but swallow.  The position was awkward for you.  To your credit, you
realized that the best thing to do was to clamp your mouth over my pussy
and accept what you had coming to you.  I never said you weren't smart.

   Too soon, too soon, it was finished.  I could have let you go.  Instead,
I pressed down onto your mouth, and put my hand over your nose.  I waited
long enough to be sure you were unconscious, then got up.  I put you into
my bed, tying you to the frame with sheets stripped and shredded.  From
then on, there would be no other women to share you with.  Over time, I
think you've come to accept your new place in my life.  The wedding ring I
picked out looks good on your hand.  I only wear mine at home.  I still
cook for you and try to be a good wife.  Better, perhaps, than you deserve.