All That He Is, and All That He Isn’t

We had just been lying there. Quiet. Not asleep, not talking, not really touching either. Just side by side in that familiar post-dinner, pre-sleep space. The air between us stale with routine, like the soft groan of an old floorboard you stop noticing after a while.

I reached for him—mechanically, maybe. But also, intentionally. I reached over his soft belly and wrapped my fingers around his cock. Not out of passion. Not out of love. Out of need. That particular, specific ache that pulses between my legs. I was horny. Not for him, but horny nonetheless. And I knew he’d be hard for me. He always was. Even when I didn’t want him, even when I hated him, he still wanted me. And that… that was power, wasn’t it?

He didn’t say anything. Just rolled to his back, like a well-trained pet. No protest. No enthusiasm either. Just silence, obedience, expectation. That annoyed me more than if he had said something stupid. Why did I hate that so much? I stroked his dumb little penis, just enough to get him hard. Just enough to make him useful.

Then I climbed on top. Like I always do. It’s where I like to be—because there, I’m in control. There, it’s mine. He’s mine. And yet… I resent every second of that. I feel like I’m owning something that is mine, something I never wanted, and simultaneously giving away too much.

I looked down at him. My husband. Sweet, boring, predictable man. His eyes were half-lidded, waiting for me to move, waiting for me to give him a reason to exist in that moment. I adored him. I hated him. My heart swelled with affection and my stomach twisted with nausea at the sight of his face.

He always had something to say. Always something to fix. My opinions? An afterthought. He loved me, I think. He meant well, maybe. But he was a man. A man. And everything that came with that—unearned confidence, subtle entitlement, lazy affection—I hated. I hated how I needed him, how I had built my life around a man who would never, could never understand what it’s like to be me.

Still, I rode him.

Grinding. Sinking down on him. My hips circling, chasing something he could never quite give me. My eyes closed. I turned inward. I left him there, beneath me. Not physically, but in every way that mattered.

I thought of my yoga instructor—tall, his mane of long brown hair, patient, the way his hand hovered near my lower back during warrior two. I thought of the man at the hardware store who helped me lift bags of mulch yesterday. The way he smelled, the way he smiled at me like I was soft but capable. Those men weren’t any better than the rest of them. Just different. Just not my husband.

Now I was starting to feel it. That delicious heat, the promise of orgasm stirring at my center. The fantasy always helped. My mind flicked through pages of desire, one man, then another. Men I’d never touched but who, in my mind, knew exactly how to touch me. I was dripping for them. I was wild for them. My hips moved with rhythm now, rolling down hard onto him, but it wasn’t him I was fucking.

Until I opened my eyes.

And there he was. Still beneath me. Still watching me with those dumb, sweet eyes. And suddenly, I was furious.

I let out a grunt—half frustration, half climax lost. The fantasy was gone. I was grounded in reality again, and it was him. Still him. Always him. The same man I married, the same man I cook for, clean around, argue with, tolerate, sleep beside. The same man who loves me, poorly.

He gasped. A little moan escaped his lips.

And something in me snapped.

Before I even thought, I spat in his open mouth.

The audacity of it shocked even me.

His eyes flew open, shocked, confused, maybe even a little hurt. And I should’ve felt guilt, but I didn’t. Not then. I felt seen. Like a mask had slipped and I was finally honest.

“Fuck me, you useless asshole,” I snarled. “Fuck me.”

He did. From beneath, fumbling, confused, needy. And that only made me more angry. Angry that he listened now. Angry that it took cruelty to get action. Angry that he didn’t know how to properly dominate me, didn’t know how to lead, didn’t know what I really needed. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care enough about me.

I spat in his face again.

“I fucking hate you,” I growled, almost crying now. “I fucking hate you.”

He came inside me. Moaning like men do. Pathetic. Helpless.

And I hated myself for letting him. For needing him. For still being there, for finishing before I did, leaving me unfulfilled, dreams of an orgasm dashed away, yet again, crying in my throat, feeling more alone than I had in months.

There’s a kind of ache I live with—this slow, simmering duality that never goes away. I love him. I do. He’s my best friend, my partner, my home. But every time I look at him, I see all the ways the world has let me down. All the ways men have let me down. It is all his fault. It is all my fault. Who can I blame the pain on?

Every time I fuck him, I feel like I’m making peace with a prison I built myself.

I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be worshipped, and feared, and treasured, and used the way I choose to be used. I want to be the goddess, the siren, the woman on fire. Not the wife. Not the good girl. Not the default.

And yet, I stay.

And I ride.

And I cum.

And I spit.

And I cry.

And I love.

And I hate.

God help me, I love him. And God help me, I fucking hate him too.

Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction intended for entertainment and exploration of consensual adult dynamics. All characters are fictional and over the age of 18. While the narrative may not explicitly detail consent or aftercare in every scene, readers should understand that all interactions described are based on prior negotiation, enthusiastic consent, and responsible aftercare practices. Healthy communication and respect are the foundation of any real-life power exchange or non-monogamous relationship.