Blistered Lips

You’ve come to ask me why I am sitting here for well over an hour now and if there is anything you can do for me. You are so young. What, eighteen? Nineteen? And yet you are so kind.

Dear beautiful girl, there is nothing anyone can do for me. And I cannot leave this bench, because Diana expects that I stay here until she is done. Diana is my wife, you see; and I must never disobey her. Even when she is doing what I know she is doing in the hotel behind me, I do what she tells me to do.

Ahh. I see that you understand what is going on up there–that she is betraying me even as I sit here talking with you. Don’t look so shocked; or is that sadness I see? If so, there is no need to pity me. Sit here beside me and I will tell you more. Go ahead, I don’t bite. Hell, I don’t even bark. Although sometimes I whimper. That is what my Diana would tell you and she would be right.

Sit with me and I will share this bread with you, so that we can both feed the birds gathered at our feet. They know me now, and are here every Thursday. Every Thursday it’s the same: Me on this bench, the birds at my feet, and my wife in room 418.

Dear girl, even though you are too young to know of such things yet, your sweetness is appreciated. And so I will tell you. Diana would tell you that I am “pussy whipped.” She tells me so every day–every single day. She is right, of course. I was struck dumb by her beauty the first time I saw her and have been her captive ever since.

After three months of dating, I begged her to marry me. She was blunt. You cannot satisfy me. That is what she said. I told her that I loved her, that I would learn, that she could show me. Because, quite honestly, I knew she was none too pleased with our intimacies. She smiled then, gently taking my hand and looking deep into my eyes. I am fond of you and could easily love you. And I will marry you. But only if you agree to my terms.

Can you guess her terms? Surely your young mind has not yet comprehended such things, and so I will tell you. My beautiful Diana revealed to me that she’d been regularly seeing and having sexual relations with a variety of men throughout the three months we’d dated. You see, she told me, there are stud men and then there are husbands. If I agree to this marriage, you will be a husband. I will get my sex from my stud men. Because, quite frankly, I do not care to have intercourse with you ever again. Of course I was devastated. Like any man would, I told her those terms were unacceptable. She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

We continued seeing each other, but the dynamics had changed. No longer was I permitted to have sex with her. Needless to say, I was perpetually aroused, totally obsessed with her. It wasn’t long before she began freely admitting to her various ongoing dalliances. On more than one occasion–when we were at dinner or a movie–she’d point to a man she’d slept with the night before or recently.

While much of what then transpired from that point on is quite embarrassing, I promised to tell you. And so I will.

My obsession became everything. She was Laura to my Franceso. At first I followed her, needing to know who these men were, jealous that she would give to them what she would not give to me. But then I had to know what they were doing with her. I began hiding in the bushes, watching through Diana’s bedroom window as they took their pleasure with her beautiful, perfect body.

Of course, it was agony. But there was also a new kind of hunger–a voracious appetite that I could no longer deny. Because I was becoming aroused watching these men molest her body, taking her roughly, spilling their seed into her womb. There came a night when, disgusted with myself–but unable to stop–I unzipped my fly and grabbed my stiff member.

I see that you are blushing. Have I said too much? Do you want me to continue?

Ah, then, I will. Thank you. They say that confession is good for the soul; perhaps that is why I feel this deep need to tell you our story. Here, have some more bread. If you hold a piece down here–like this–some of the birds will come right up to your fingers. There you go.

As I was saying, I grabbed my own erect penis, right there outside of her window as I watched Diana on her on hands and knees with this man–this brute–pummeling her from behind. I watched the biggest penis I’d ever seen sliding in and out of her; and Diana loved it. She was screaming at him to do it even harder and deeper. Her flesh had taken on a pink glow, and a mist of sweat covered her bouncing breasts. Then her eyes rolled up, and she began grunting and screaming. Her body twitched and jerked. That she was having an orgasm with that huge organ inside of her small orifice drove me wild. Quite frankly, I’d never been so turned on.

I began stroking myself. One…two…three… And that is as far as I got. I began ejaculating into the bushes just as the man pulled out his penis–slimy and dripping with the evidence of my beloved’s orgasm–and began shooting his discharge all over her exquisite heart-shaped buttocks.

I was crouched behind the bush, catching my breath and wondering how I could creep away without being discovered, when Diana’s “stud man” quite abruptly emerged through the front door, tucking in his shirt. As I watched him getting into his car, he stopped and–looking back at the house–yelled an obsenity. I sent him away and he’s not too happy. It was Diana’s voice right above my head. I looked up to see her smiling down at me from the window.

Of course, I was mortified. It turned you on, didn’t it? I was so embarrassed, so confused–my sickened heart thudding against my chest–all I could do was stutter. Diana told me to come inside. Shaking, not knowing what was going to happen next, I went around to the front of the house. The door was still ajar from her lover’s quick departure, so I let myself in, going straight to Diana’s bedroom where I found her still naked, the overwhelming and pungent smell of sex filling the room.

So, you get one more chance to ask me to marry you. Just one more. And let me warn you, before you ask for my hand. Oh her smile was so confident when she said that. It will be just like tonight. And the other nights you were outside my window. I will have lovers, many lovers. You may watch or listen or wait. But you, yourself, will not have sex with me. The only thing that will be different is that you won’t have to hide behind a bush.

The rest of the story is obvious, my dear. I married her, agreeing to her harsh terms. It’s been seven years now. And while I sleep in the same bed with Diana every night–watching the rise and fall of her breasts, smelling the perfume of her shampooed hair, seeing the flair of her blanketed hips–I am never permitted to have intercourse with her. I cannot even count the number of men who’ve had sex with Diana.

Sometimes Diana and her “stud man” will let me stand with my face to the corner, listening and masturbating. Other times they might have me help them in the actual act–by positioning her or holding her open for him. Sometimes I must stay behind the closet door or under the bed.

But this is Thursday, Bench Warming Day, as Diana calls it. It’s been going on now for about three months. Look up there where the blind in the window is half open. That is room 418, and that is my cue. It tells me that they have had their fill. Five men have had sex with my wife. Five men have abused her body and used it for their pleasure. They have used and filled every opening.

So I must be going. Diana needs me. She will be depleted and tired. I will tenderly bathe her, and then dress her. Then carry her to the car. I will take her home and tuck her into bed. Because I love her. I love her so very much.