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 shoulder and, taking his little manhood gently between my forefinger and thumb, slipping it into my wet vagina. I push my butt down so that I swallow all of him. And he is “inside me”, without fanfare, barely a sensation, a pathetic scraping at the thresholds of my sexual wanting. I run my hands across the tight bag of balls underneath the plump curves of my butt and it is desperately tight, his thighs are straining. Even this charitable sip of me is almost too much for my husband to endure.
I begin to ride him, while his eyes grow larger with panic. With my legs spread, my butt pushed out and my bare feet against his legs, I begin to pump myself up and down. On the fifth pump, I can feel my husband’s small penis slip out of me. He has no real shaft, no length for me to slip up and down on, building myself into the delirious thickness of wanting. I drop down and pump again, feeling almost nothing. “You have your work cut out for you, little man,” I tell him, “As usual, I can’t even feel your little thing inside me. Shame, your poor pathetic penis…” As soon as I have said this, he starts to pump his penis into me more wildly, and a look of deep despair comes across his face as he tells me, “oh no, please, I think I’m going to come already!”
I promptly slip myself off his penis and as I see his dick spurting with waves of premature come, I begin to smack him in his balls in an access of unbridled vengeance. I punch him in his balls while he comes, moaning and screaming. On his face I can see the most ecstatic confusion: in that whimpering moment of pleasure and pain, I can see my husband registering the betrayal of his penis, almost like he has been forsaken by his own body. I exalt in that moment of masculine powerlessness; I live to bring him into a recognition of the worthlessness that his whole sex dare not confront.