I met my husband in Manila. He was much older than I was but that did not bother me much. He was also fat and homely, but that too did not cause me to lose sleep at night.
Yes, I should be grateful to him. He helps provide for my family back in the Philippines. He bought a nice house for me in the Arkansas countryside. Coming from a rather destitute background you would think I would have been happy, but alas, I was not.
You would think that being treated like a human sex slave would have been degrading to me. It was not. I learned from an early age what men are really like. Some won't admit it, but what they really want, really crave, are dirty little whores behind closed doors.
I don't want to get anyone in trouble at work so I won't delve much further into the kinky details of my married life except to say this...
For all the filthy, perverted, and unhygienic services I provided to my old, fat, and ugly husband there was only one thing I asked for in return; I wanted him to eat me out.
I had tried all manner of cajoling to get his fat face between my legs; but nothing. Not even lingerie and whipped cream could pique his interest.
"Please dear... Just try it. You'll like it..." I said spread eagled.
"That's disgusting. You're a disgusting little whore," he replied.
After a while, I tried to resign myself to a life where nobody ate my cooch, but, try as I might, it simply did not sit well with me. Was this really so wrong? He certainly made enough never-ending, degenerate demands which I never failed to dutifully meet.
I would have had an affair, but I'm afraid the backwoods of Arkansas are not exactly ripe with opportunity to be naughty. Things got so bad that I turned to porn every chance I could get.
Even only to see another woman being eaten would at least give me a sense of vicarious satisfaction, but alas, it was a fleeting satisfaction that only left me more frustrated than I was before.
This went on for years. I cooked and cleaned and soon had a young son and daughter to care for. Yet, I could not abandon my desire to be eaten. It became an obsession. I would have talked to my priest or a counselor or a friend but there was too much shame. I was also painfully aware that in a small town lips were often loose and tongues liked to wag.
Ultimately, I resigned myself to being deprived; forever. I thought somehow I could make my peace with it. That was until...
The beatings began.
At first it was just a slap during an argument. Then, it escalated to the back of the hand. Soon after it was closed fists. I took to wearing long sleeves and dark sunglasses. This went on for 20 more very long years, I'm sad to say. Whenever my husband would start drinking his, "'shine" I would soon be receiving greetings from the land of beatings.
So now I am little more than a frustrated, middle-aged housewife who has lost her once good looks. I find myself left with little but a fat ass and a drunken lout of a husband who satisfies his degenerate needs these days with whores. I am nothing more than his maid and punching bag.
I get down on my knees every single day to thank god that my children are finally grown and have left home.
So it was on my 25th wedding anniversary, after a particularly bad beating the night before, that I decided to prepare a special dinner for my husband. It was somewhat difficult as my left arm was completely numb from where he had punched me in the shoulder.
But, I was determined to play the role of dutiful wife, and so I had purchased all the ingredients at the store to make him his favorite dish; beef stew.
He sat across from me, stuffing his fat face with stew, not saying a word.
"Do you like the stew, dear?"
Grunt. (that meant yes)
He looked up at me and said, "Why are you wearing a coat in the house?"
"I'm cold, dear."
"Take off that coat now, you're starting to piss me off, y'good f'r nuttin' backwoods bitch."
It wouldn't be easy to get the coat off but I was used to obeying orders. I stood up, trying to get the heavy coat off with my right arm. A droplet of blood fell to the carpet. My husband simply said, "Goddamn whore," and came at me with fire in his eyes.
"Can't even take a stupid coat off good for fuck all bitch," he ranted, pulling the coat violently from my shoulders.
Then suddenly he froze.
His eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets when he saw the stump that used to be my left arm.
"What in tarnationnnnnnn...."
"I knew you'd eat me sooner or later, dear. Even if it took 25 years."
His still bulging eyes traced an arc from my stump to his half-eaten, third helping of stew. He doubled over, projectile vomit bouncing off the blood spattered carpet.
I picked up a carving knife and said, "Happy Anniversary, Buford," before stabbing him in the side of his neck.
As he bled out I mounted his face and howled at the moon. I rode him like those cowboys I had seen at the rodeo; my bloody stump pumping in abject victory.
I always knew he would like it too because he let me ride him like that all night and into the next day and the one after that.... After all, I have a lot of lost time to make up for.
Originally submitted to r/nosleep. Removed by moderators for being too much even for r/nosleep. Published in Crucifiction by Krafto Matix.
