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My husband sits on the lemon-coloured couch, with his legs spread apart, and my eyes wander over his smooth, large thighs and the paltry conjugal apparatus he has between them: his penis is small and thin, with a little ridge near the head, and it droops down making a sad little configuration of manhood along with his two small testicles. I strip off my clothes, and my eyes remain intensely gazing at his flaccid dick. As I drop them off - the t-shirt, the black panties, my socks - and step onto the cool tiles, feeling their icy contact on my bare soles, his penis begins to rise in its dumb salute to his arousal. But it rises such a short space, and now it sits there stiff, a little two inch thing arrogantly pointing up at the ceiling, hungry and wild with a tight scrotum bunched up beneath. He must be so embarrassed.
"So sad that it doesn't grow any more than that," I say with a disappointed voice. On his face I can see the distant patriarchal fierceness, of a male who believes deep down, in the fiction that he is a fucking-machine, that his penis and testicles are the dominant in the sexual equation. But it is more an echo, the desperate reverb of his male defence mechanisms. More closer to the surface of his features - the nervousness in his eyes, the semi-trembling lip - I can see his fear and his vulnerability, and his long-cultivated shame, as my eyes can see all that he is, all that represents his maleness, and it is this short prick, these small fragile testes, that have never satisfied me in our six months of marriage.
I have told my husband that this is his last ride. I demanded a male stud for our six-month anniversary as my well-deserved present. He could hardly argue with me, when I presented the force of my case. I told him that his marital "treasures" were worthless to me; that I had enjoyed males of much greater talents and prowess than he; and that to have married him and endured six months of his premature ejaculations and sexual tameness, to have put up with his ambiguous hard-ons and sacrifice all those evenings when I went to bed orgasm-less with my inner thighs wet with heat... that this was no destiny for a female like myself. I made sure to tell him when he had just come out of the shower, so that I had address him in his nakedness, and I could see his palms drifting to cover his embarrassed, flaccid penis while I spoke. I laughed at him, when he hid his shameful manhood.
In the end, he fought back with all the ingloriousness of his meek masculinity. He said he would fuck me again, that he could make me come. And I told him that he had one last chance to prove himself, or I would be finding myself a more satisfying male to entertain me. So, I stand before him, looking at his desperate, stupid, small penis - lying there, an idiotic exclamation mark. How on earth would that thing satisfy me? I mount him, placing my knees on the tops of his thighs, placing my left hand firmly on his shoulde
"So sad that it doesn't grow any more than that," I say with a disappointed voice. On his face I can see the distant patriarchal fierceness, of a male who believes deep down, in the fiction that he is a fucking-machine, that his penis and testicles are the dominant in the sexual equation. But it is more an echo, the desperate reverb of his male defence mechanisms. More closer to the surface of his features - the nervousness in his eyes, the semi-trembling lip - I can see his fear and his vulnerability, and his long-cultivated shame, as my eyes can see all that he is, all that represents his maleness, and it is this short prick, these small fragile testes, that have never satisfied me in our six months of marriage.
I have told my husband that this is his last ride. I demanded a male stud for our six-month anniversary as my well-deserved present. He could hardly argue with me, when I presented the force of my case. I told him that his marital "treasures" were worthless to me; that I had enjoyed males of much greater talents and prowess than he; and that to have married him and endured six months of his premature ejaculations and sexual tameness, to have put up with his ambiguous hard-ons and sacrifice all those evenings when I went to bed orgasm-less with my inner thighs wet with heat... that this was no destiny for a female like myself. I made sure to tell him when he had just come out of the shower, so that I had address him in his nakedness, and I could see his palms drifting to cover his embarrassed, flaccid penis while I spoke. I laughed at him, when he hid his shameful manhood.
In the end, he fought back with all the ingloriousness of his meek masculinity. He said he would fuck me again, that he could make me come. And I told him that he had one last chance to prove himself, or I would be finding myself a more satisfying male to entertain me. So, I stand before him, looking at his desperate, stupid, small penis - lying there, an idiotic exclamation mark. How on earth would that thing satisfy me? I mount him, placing my knees on the tops of his thighs, placing my left hand firmly on his shoulde
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