My name is John, though I go by rgjohn, and I’ve written a few erotic books and some content for Literotica. When Emma read my work, she suggested I write about loving, female-led relationships—a genre she’s passionate about. It’s been a while since I’ve written, but a fan recently reignited my interest by asking me to turn his detailed journal into a story. Initially skeptical, I found myself captivated by his account of a Female-Led Relationship (FLR), a concept I hadn’t explored before. With a mix of curiosity and research, I’ve decided to craft a multi-part story spanning over 20 chapters. If you are just starting, you should begin your journey back at chapter 1.
Chapter 4: Engagement, Marriage, and How I Almost Ruined It All
Anna and I continued our relationship after that initial phase, evolving into a genuine couple. I attended her elegant gatherings, and she let me date her within my budget. Understanding my feelings, she never insisted on covering our meals or outings—something I truly appreciated about her.
Our intimate moments were satisfying, or so she assured me. I struggled with my tendency to finish too quickly, but it didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, she turned it into a little ritual, asking me to pleasure her after I finished inside her. While she didn’t suck me frequently after I cleaned her, when she did it they felt like a special treat.
Eventually, we declared our love and got engaged. Before making that commitment, we had numerous discussions about the differences in our incomes. One slightly contentious topic was my difficulty with her advancing career while mine felt stalled. She sought reassurance that I was comfortable with her being the primary breadwinner.
While I insisted I was fine with it, deep down, it stung a bit. Admitting that embarrassment to her felt awkward, but she made it clear, not necessarily in words, that if my feelings were too much to handle, we shouldn’t continue our relationship. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her due to my pride, so I reassured her it wouldn’t be an issue. This eventually led to me moving in with her. She covered the major bills while I took care of groceries and handled domestic tasks like cooking, running errands, and maintaining our home.
Working from our condo meant I had my own office, a luxury I could never afford on my own. It felt like paradise. With no rent to pay and food costs relatively low, I managed to save a decent amount of money—at least by my own standards.
A few months later, I poured most of my savings into buying her a stunning diamond ring, making sure to reserve enough for an extravagant dinner at the best restaurant in town, situated atop a high-rise with a breathtaking city view. The meal was almost equivalent to my weekly earnings.
Anna sensed something special was brewing; she wasn’t oblivious. I briefed the waiter about my plan, and as I prepared to propose, the lights dimmed slightly, intensifying the moment. My heart raced. I was acutely aware of all eyes in the restaurant on me. Insecurities flooded my mind.
What if she said no? The thought of being crushed was almost unbearable. Would my concerns about our financial disparity resurface? Would my inability to bring her to climax with my penis be a deal breaker? What if I simply embarrassed her?
These thoughts gnawed at me, and I should have confronted my fears before splurging on that ring, but I found that too daunting. I worried that confiding in her would validate my insecurities—that she might admit that she was only keeping me around for amusement or perhaps because of my talent for oral pleasure. Hence, I chose to propose publicly, naively hoping she wouldn’t want to humiliate me by rejecting my offer in front of an audience. Crazy, right?
Thankfully, all those fears dissipated when she joyfully accepted.
I was elated, promising her she would never regret her decision. However, as time went on, I would ultimately cause her regret, not for the reasons I initially feared but due to my insecurities deteriorating our marriage and my neglect of “husbandly” duties.
Let me elaborate.
The time between her acceptance and our wedding was the happiest of my life. We had a grand celebration with several hundred guests. Her family embraced me, and I genuinely liked them in return. They were down-to-earth folks from an upper-middle-class background who appreciated how happy I made their daughter, which filled me with pride.
However, trouble brewed after we had been married for about a year. My insecurities clung to me like a shadow. I had reassured her that her higher income didn’t bother me, but it continued to gnaw at me nonetheless. More troubling was my inability to satisfy her sexually. Though it didn’t seem to concern her—so long as I kept up my side of the bargain through oral pleasure—my shortcomings troubled me deeply.
I also found myself envious of her male colleagues. They were attractive, successful, and exuded confidence. I couldn’t help but question why Anna chose me with such accomplished men around. Surely, they were endowed in ways I wasn’t, capable of providing her with sexual satisfaction that eluded me.
In an awkward attempt to confront my insecurities, I playfully gifted Anna an artificial penis, highlighting our unique circumstances. To add to the gesture, I included a harness, joking that I could pretend to be a stud with a much bigger cock. At first, she laughed it off, finding the idea absurd. But as we experimented with it—despite a few initial missteps—it became clear that she was genuinely enjoying it.
What unsettled me, however, was the discovery of how effectively it could bring her to climax. The first time it happened, I brushed it off as a novelty, but the more it occurred, the more it gnawed at me. Although Anna downplayed it, assuring me it wasn’t a significant shift in our intimacy, I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that she was secretly using it when I wasn’t around. It wasn’t just the act—it was the silent reminder of my inadequacies that lingered in the background, challenging my sense of self in ways I struggled to confront.
I began to feel like a complete loser, which only amplified my withdrawal from her. I became reluctant to initiate intimacy, knowing it would serve as a painful reminder of my inadequacies. Despite Anna’s acceptance of my limitations and her willingness to receive pleasure through my mouth, I had begun to shy away from sexual intimacy altogether.
Consequently, our sex life became strained, primarily due to my own issues. I was still resorting to daily masturbation, like the old days, compounding my feelings of failure and isolation. This habit not only harmed our intimate life but also began affecting my job performance, as I wasted time consuming adult content rather than focusing on my career. My shifting priorities ultimately led to me losing my job, a fact I hadn’t conveyed to Anna yet, worried that I might soon find myself homeless.
And then the unthinkable happened, leading to my downfall, but also to a significant turning point.
While indulging in my self-destructive habit one fateful day in my office, I was surprised when Anna walked in unexpectedly. She had come home early, seemingly intent on confronting me about my behavior—something she confirmed later.
Mortified doesn’t begin to capture how I felt. It was as if I’d been caught red-handed by a parent. Anna’s anger was unlike anything I’d witnessed; she raised her voice, tears streaming down her face as she unleashed her feelings. I was speechless, caught off guard, and completely defenseless. I realized then that I had ruined everything.
As she stormed out of my office, I broke down, tears streaming down my face, with nothing but shame surrounding me. I was left in a vulnerable state, my hopes of a successful career and marriage crumbling.
In that dark moment, thoughts of ending it all crossed my mind. It seemed like the only way to escape this turmoil.
Finally, when I summoned the courage to emerge from my office, I found Anna in her office, engrossed in legal documents. She didn’t acknowledge my presence as I knocked on her doorframe.
“Can we talk?” I asked, my voice sounding hopeless.
After a long pause, she finally replied, her tone calm but laced with disappointment and anger. “No. I’m not ready to talk. Just leave me alone.”
I started to walk away, only to hear her add, “You’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight and until further notice.”
“The sofa? Can’t I use the guest room instead?” I pleaded.
“No! The guest room is for guests,” she declared firmly.
While biting, her response wasn’t nearly as harsh as I feared, imagining she might send me packing entirely. I had no idea where I would go. Outside of a couple of friends, I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. Anna had effectively become my whole life.
I went to the kitchen to prepare dinner, opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, hoping to reach out to her. Upon finishing the preparation for the meal, I approached her office door, which was now locked.
“I have dinner ready,” I called out.
“Leave it at the door,” she instructed.
With my tail between my legs, I returned to the kitchen, placed the meal on a tray, and added a small vase with a rose—something I used to do frequently. I left the tray outside her office, tapping lightly to let her know the food was ready.
Then I settled down to eat my own dinner alone. A few minutes later, I heard her door open and close. I peeked around the corner, only to see that the tray had vanished, but the vase with the rose lay discarded on the floor.
I heard Anna moving to the bedroom, but I hesitated to approach her. It was clear she needed space, and I understood why.
That night on the sofa was sheer torment. I couldn’t sleep, my mind racing with thoughts of how to rectify the situation. I could promise her never to engage in my self-destructive habits again, but that felt like addressing only the symptoms of a deeper issue—my neglect of her needs and feelings.
Apologizing felt insufficient. Perhaps I should beg for her forgiveness. I had no clear plan.
The following morning, as I heard Anna moving about and preparing for a shower, I snuck in, gathered some fresh clothes to change into and showered in the guest bathroom.
While making breakfast, Anna entered the kitchen, ready for work. She didn’t spare a glance or a word; she grabbed a piece of toast, poured a cup of coffee, and headed for the door. Just before leaving, she said coldly, “The master bathroom needs a deep cleaning, and we’re out of my shampoo and soap.”
“Okay,” I responded softly, “Have a nice day.”
She didn’t reply and disappeared into the world outside.
Alone with my thoughts, I recognized that I had an uphill battle ahead. Anna hadn’t asked me to leave yet, offering a tiny glimmer of hope.
I still hadn’t told her I lost my job—I was terrified that revelation would be the final straw. But I understood that hiding it would only complicate things further.
Striving to make amends, I cleaned the entire condo thoroughly and ensured we had ample food and supplies. I hoped that would be an olive branch.
