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From: cwcobblest@aol.com (Cwcobblest)
Subject: Hubby Humiliation Bonanza: "Obscure," part one
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OBSCURE, part 1 (MmF, wimp husband)
by c.w. cobblestone

Well, here we go again. Another long night sitting alone in my damp basement
cubby hole, staring at the clock and trying not to cry. It's a terrible way to
spend an evening, I know, but unfortunately I'm getting used to it.  

Going on midnight, and still no sign of her. I have a pretty good idea where
she is, though. She's out with that creep from work again - either that or her
car's broken down somewhere. 

Fat chance. Luke has been calling the house a lot recently, and Natalie has
been coming home later and later. 

So I sit here and wait, like a sap, like I always do.

Don't ask me why I put up with it. It's love, I guess. Well, okay, maybe this
isn't what most people would call love. Maybe it's some kind of
manic-depressive infatuation. I don't know what you'd call it. Whatever it is,
it sure has me hooked. 

It's not easy being married to Natalie. She treats me like a dirty dishrag, but
I always come running back for more.

She says her job has been stressful lately; maybe that's why she treats me the
way she does. I'm trying to understand, and I've resolved to put up with it for
the sake of our marriage. Natalie is an assistant prosecutor with the state of
New Hampshire, and I suppose that has to be quite demanding. She puts in a lot
of hours and sometimes the strain gets to her, I guess. But she's passionate
about her career - she defines herself by it - and she has no intention of
giving it up. 

So she ends up taking all her frustrations out on me. 

Still, a demanding career is no excuse for the terrible way she abuses me. It
goes far beyond simple stress. Natalie goes out of her way to make my life
miserable. She seems to derive an unholy joy from sticking the dagger into my
gut and twisting it, all the while laughing at my feeble attempts to somehow
make this marriage work. 

And I can't fight back. Natalie has a quicksilver tongue, and her satanic green
stare has been the downfall of many an intimidated witness on the stand. I'm
certainly no match for her! 

Whatever my wife wants, I've learned to just bow my head and say, "yes,
Natalie."

I lost my job about a year ago. I used to be an accountant with a large
corporation, but after my company downsized, Natalie told me not to bother
looking for another job. She brought home most of the money anyway, she said,
and we could get by quite comfortably without my salary. She told me it would
be more convenient for her if I stayed at home and took care of things. 

So that's exactly what I did. I stopped working on my resume and became quite
the little house-husband, happy for the chance to finally do something that
might please my estranged wife.

But it isn't easy. Natalie is a hard woman to please.

I work hard to keep our home spotless. I make sure dinner is hot on the table
when she comes home from work every night. I keep her business suits clean and
pressed. All her jewelry is kept polished and meticulously organized, and her
shoes are always shined and arranged in neat rows in her walk-in closet. I take
care of all the bills, do the grocery shopping, wash her Mercedes once a week,
and even make sure Natalie's magazine subscriptions are faithfully renewed.

Not that my wife appreciates any of it. Natalie comes from a well-to-do family,
and she's pretty much a spoiled brat. I'd never say that to her face, of
course, but it's true. To the outside world she's the cool professional,
elegant in demeanor and always the dynamic life of the party. But they don't
see the side of her that I see: the bitch side. I work my ass off to please
her, but she always finds something to complain about. If she's ever once said
"thank you" for all my hard work, I sure don't remember it.

Still, I stick around.

Maybe if I lay down and close my eyes, I can block it all out, and pretend for
a moment that she really does care for me...

Well I can dream, can't I?

*   *   *

I woke up from my short nap and glanced at the clock. Quarter-past twelve. My
fertile imagination started conjuring up all sorts of possibilities. Maybe her
car really did break down somewhere...or maybe she was hurt or something, and
couldn't call.

Yeah, right.

I couldn't just sit there in the basement wallowing in self-pity, but what else
could I do? When your wife is out on the town with her boyfriend while you're
sitting alone at home, self-pity can be your only friend.

I idled upstairs into the kitchen to check on the pot roast. I figured it was
beyond repair; you can only keep dinner warm for so long. But, lo and behold,
when I looked in the oven the meat didn't appear to be too dried out. I cut a
small piece and it seemed to be okay. 

Maybe she'll be hungry after a hard night of fucking!

I wandered around the house, unsure of what to do next. I drifted into the
laundry room and started folding some clothes. Just touching Natalie's shirts
and dresses was making me weak! I held one of her blouses up to my breast, and
I swooned. I can't help it. I still love her. I'll never stop loving her, no
matter what.

Three and a half years. That's how long it's been since I've had sex with my
wife. Actually, we've only done it three times during our whole marriage, and
that was all within the first few months. 

But after we were married for about four months, she dropped the bomb on me.
One night, I was feeling boldly amorous and I asked Natalie if we could please
make love. She stopped me cold and told me to sit down on the side of the bed.

"I've got something to tell you, Brian," she said seriously. Her calm, green
gaze cut right to the marrow. 

"I don't want to hurt your feelings too badly...but..." She paused, and an
ever-so-slight wicked smile played on her lips. "Well, let's just put it this
way: sex with you makes me nauseous, Brian. I'm sorry, but you fawn all over
me. A woman doesn't like to be slobbered on, Brian. It makes me ill."

I was shattered. How do you respond to something like that? I sat there for a
minute, stunned. And then I started to cry - which of course fueled Natalie's
contempt.

"Awww, I hurt his little feelings," she said in that syrupy baby-talk she uses
when she knows I'm on the ropes. "Don't worry, darling. I won't leave you. I
just don't want you slobbering all over me. Sex with you just doesn't do the
trick, Brian. You can understand that, can't you, little wuss?"

Well, from that time on, I haven't even thought about approaching Natalie for
sex. I can pretty much forget about ever making love to my wife again. I guess
I've accepted that the best I can. And I've grown to accept her little flings
as well. I suppose I can't expect a woman like Natalie to go without sex...I
just wish I was the one doing it with her. After all, she is my wife.

But, again, I put up with it all.

I often wonder why she even married me in the first place. It certainly wasn't
love. Maybe she needed the security of having someone to come home to. I don't
know. But she's too much of a free spirit to be bogged down by something as
serious as love. 

As for me, I think about my wife every minute of the day. She's my everything.

And it's weird, but I think my undying devotion is what makes her treat me the
way she does. She resents the fact that I love her so much, I think. I don't
know; I'm not a psychologist. Maybe she does love me in some kind of depraved
way. I think she needs me, anyway. 

I surely need her...

I awoke from my daydream and finished folding Natalie's blouses. After the last
shirt was folded, I started on the dirty laundry. Spying a pair of her panties
in the hand-wash basket, I fished them out, feeling a little guilty about
fondling my wife's dirty underwear. But my desire quickly overcame my guilt. I
untwisted the lacy white material until I found the crotch area then held the
underwear up to my face, breathing in the faint scent of my wife's perfume
mixed with her dried secretions. 

As I stood in the laundry room with my face in Natalie's panties, I heard the
key in the front door. She was home! 

I tossed the panties back into the basket, then rushed out to the living room
to greet my errant wife.

She was a mess. Her hair was standing up all over the place, the makeup around
her eyes was mussed, and she was carrying her pumps. Her skirt and jacket were
wrinkled beyond respectability.

Natalie gave me a wry smile as she handed me her shoes.

"He-llo, Brian," she sang pleasantly. She sniffed the air and smiled to
herself. "Smells good! That's sweet, honey, you kept dinner warm. But, awwww,
Luke and I already ate at the Tavern tonight. Sorry." She giggled and touched
my nose lightly with the tip of her painted finger. I stood there in a sad daze
holding her shoes as she breezed past me into the living room.

She flopped down onto the couch and stretched languidly. She looked like a
sensuous, tired feline. "Brain, I'm EXHAUSTED!" She yawned loudly and ran her
hands through her thick brown hair. "Whew! I got quite a workout tonight,
Brian. Quite a workout..." her words drifted off as she peeled off her nylons
one by one and handed them to me. "A night with Luke is better than 10 aerobics
classes!

"Go get me a nice glass of wine - and get me my robe," she sighed.

I rushed to obey. After I fetched her wine and robe, I went into the kitchen
and turned off the oven. I sadly cut up the roast I'd been worrying over all
night and put it into a Tupperware bowl, in case Natalie wanted leftovers
tomorrow. 

By the time I'd finished in the kitchen, Natalie had already gone to bed. I was
upset because I didn't get to spend any time with her tonight. She's never home
anymore. It seems she's always out with Luke, and my time with her is very
limited.

For a few minutes, I stood in the living room feeling sorry for myself, gazing
unconsciously at the half-empty glass of wine she left sitting on the table.

Before going to bed, I peeked in on Natalie, peacefully snuggled up to her
pillow. She looked so angelic, you wouldn't have guessed that she'd just had
her brains fucked out a few hours ago. A tear worked its way down my face as I
quietly shut her bedroom door and walked downstairs to my lonely room in the
basement.

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2


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