Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final - Sex Stories

Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final

... makes me hate myself."

"And that hate doesn't go away, so the idea is to hate something else -- be angry at something else, all the time."

I grunt. "See? Fucking simple."

"Fucking human," she says. She reaches out across the table. I hesitate, because I know what it'll mean to meet her halfway. She's offering love -- something to focus on instead of hate. If I take her hand, then at the very least I'm telling her that I'll try.

There's no way to explain everything that rushes through my head during those moments of horrible, awkward hesitation. We're married. I've cleaned myself up. We do normal shit with each other all the time. I'm collared -- maybe even caged. I wear dresses. We're not monogamous -- that's fucking crazy talk -- but she's in charge of our sex life. She brings home other dickgirls. I bottom exclusively, --until maybe, one day, finally, I'm healed. On that day, she unlocks me, crawls onto the bed, and presents herself. I take off my collar. I fuck her -- no, I make love to her -- in the ass, and it's good. Maybe even it's nothing special, which is, in a perverse way, kind of the point. Then it's a happily-ever-after dickgirl orgy, with the two of us being each other's primaries forever. We keep doing all the normal shit that couples do. We both bring other dickgirls home. We both top, and we both bottom. In a fantasy beyond the wildest hopes of all fantasies, maybe we even bring regular girls home sometimes. They're plugged, and maybe even ...

... collared, but we're okay with it. We fuck their mouths. We eat and fuck their pussies. They play with our asses, and it's all good. There's titties of every shape and size for everyone, all around. They go home satisfied, and we always have each other, to like, to love, and to butt fuck.

But also: I try. I try so hard. I slip completely into sub mod and bottom mode, and I surrender everything to Jack, because she knows what's best for me. I go to therapy. I go on drugs. I never get better. I'm still a bitch all day, or a medicated zombie. She still has to fuck it out of me every afternoon and night, or she dumps cum into the starfish that's an albatross around her neck. She gets sick of it. She gets sick of me. She's in it, though, because she reached out her hand across the table on that fateful afternoon -- this very afternoon -- and to her, that was as solid a promise as one of those old-timey gold bands.

I can't take her hand, but I can't stand to see her pull it back. Like a manipulative bitch, I cry.

She gets up and comes around the table. She coaxes me up and into a hug.

"Please don't leave me," I beg. "Please." I'm too fucked up to even know if that's a confession -- that I couldn't have, wouldn't have taken her hand.

"Okay," she says. She's rocking me back and forth. "Okay."

"I won't go out anymore," I blubber. "I won't drink that stuff anymore. I'll come home. I'll stay home. Please."

"Hey," she says. She pulls back and grasps my face. She steadies it, ...