His wife was not a martyr, although some might consider her long-suffering. He loved her in his own way, and sometimes even wanted to make love to her. There was something in him that drove him towards broken birds, and though many would expect her to be broken, his wife was not. She was also not 22, and not so thin a that strong wind would knock her down. And the town they lived in, well the wind always blew fucking hard.
How many broken girls came in and out of his life on a daily basis? More than the candies in the dish on his desk, but less than drops of blue ink in his inkwell. Soon he lived for his broken birds alone, and she thought about leaving him. So many birds in life and online, but he had three special feathered ones in his menagerie.
He had always jerked it to women he did not have access to in real life. But over the years, the longing and wanking, and behavior escalated and began to consume him. Such activities occurred and one might say flourished, at the expense of a sexual relationship in reality with a woman who would do anything. Over their years together, he slowly began to turn his wife down more and more, so that he could let his thoughts out of their cage. So that he could edge, and edge, and edge, and feel the most delicious pleasure at his imaginings.
At first he confined his thoughts to musing in the off hours, and tugging on his meat after rejecting the Mrs. again, and again. The retro skirts, the thigh high stockings, the high heels like ice picks in a perineal winter. The birds always needed something from him, and it wasn’t to take out the trash. Thoughts of those girls- they consumed him. Finding their images, capturing them in his notebook and his mind, looking for a new aspect in their photos – he loved it. A necklace dangling into some slight cleavage, a tiny mole at the corner of an eyebrow, a run in her stocking that somehow was immortalized on Instagram. But soon the photos and wanking and edging were not enough. Having put so much energy into his thoughts that they took flight, and beat like wings scouring universe and fanning the hungry flames in those girls’ hearts.
His lust. Omniscient. Omnipotent, never impotent, the fuel, the fueled and the fueling. The girls felt it. They felt the energy hovering in every look and every glance. They felt his fingertips ghosting over the keystroke that pressed into download, his gaze reaching through the internet. His desire slowed and sped time, and it woke them from a dead sleep with pounding hearts and sometimes dripping centers. They needed to be filled, but the ache was indistinct, and the question that always remained was what was needed more – something to assuage their rumbling stomachs or their aching cunts?
When his hunger woke them, they would want to eat. His hunger became their hunger. But they could not eat, because they restricted so one day they could have a man. They wanted to be mothers, or at least thought they did. This desire also created dread and loathing. They dreaded what the seed would do to their bodies and that they would have to eat or be failures. Eat or Fail. This was an idea so contrary to their current existence of eating equaling failure. They were broken as prisoners often are.
Because of the time and the place and the sex they were born, their lives were destined to be a circle jerk or a catch-22. Starve, purge, starve, starve starve. The zeitgeist did it ever change? I mean it was zeit and it was geist, the 90s had broken their parents, and the girls had inherited something supposedly new and supposedly free. Their parents were prisoners-escaped, but the birds – their vaginas, their stomachs, their uncut hair, it was all for the pleasure of others. Wrapped around some man’s hand, or their own hand pulling it taut. Pulling it so as not to forget their place.
Why could they have not been born with dicks? And so, they were not free and yet no one would say their stockings bound them. Free? Hah! A few were, but most were hungry and broken because the world had made them thus. The birds, placed behind cake, and tea, and pilaf, for years on end, a banquet they would eat, and eat again, and eat and eat, and each time they would then run to the bathroom to emit….. their barfing sang a song. A chorus that was even better at times, while hidden all the girls knew its melody and harmony – the ones that had barfed for years – altos all. This song, it underlay every heartbeat of their days and every blade of grass that pushed through the flat plans and vast spaces that could not confine a thing, and yet would make prisoners of half its residents. The birds with broken wings, they could not fly and they could only listen with unstopped ears. They heard and felt the infinite weight of the voices of those before and those that would come after. The white scarf, the horses, the hose, their clicking clacking steps on ice no one would pay to clear and that everyone must learn to walk upon.
Their Instagram, their Nannas, their teachers, their bosses!!! Their bosses, their baristas, even the fucking music in the malls – the they became an it, and it was all raised in one voice, all whispering and screaming, 1000 decibels and a straining breeze barely floating the dandelion fluff – it heaved and it petted, it soothed and it excited. Their fucking country was landlocked and yet the ocean was as clear as day. Waves crashing, snakes in the grass, and jays cawing, pecking at the trash migrant laborers threw on every corner, and cannibalizing the fertilized eggs of any nest they could find. The gaze of migrants on every ass, and flowing waterfall of hair that walked by. The gazing and the cawing, and the distant ocean and dried up seas sacrificed to cotton for other lands, all pleading and cajoling, and laughing at them. Sssssssecure a man, sssssteal his seed, feed his seed, feed feed feed, breed, no autonomy, peck peck peck peck peck peck. Although everyone used computers, their nails on the keyboards reminded his wife of the typewriter she used twenty-two years ago to write a paper about some feminist novel that had just been remade into a hulu series. So fucking ironic, or not, Alanis and James Cordon would have to decide. His wife, always told him to flush his rubbers if he didn’t want a trash baby. Isn’t that ironic? Nah.
Do birds dream? Do prisoners? What gift is given to those whose dreams and desires are not their own, but rather the dreams of their families and their pronatalist home. The wife well she did not have to breed. She had broken the dreams of her family and state for years on end. She had autonomy and she had him although his meat called out to their little bird mouths and tight little bird cunts and asses. Suck me, eat me, lick me, consume me. His prick sang a brand new verse of the Song of Solomon. Thousands of years too late maybe. This meat will make you whole, it will end your ceaseless hunger. His meat called, but was its song loud enough to drown the gnashing hunger? How anyone walked throughout that office without a pastry in one hand and dildo in the other, is a question for the ages. Poor poor broken baby birds, screaming and chirping for someone to feed them, for something to fill them. He heard the hum and the call, and the pleading and so did his wife.
And so the energy flowed. All the nights he had denied his wife, and spunked and spooged upon the bedclothes that he paid someone else to clean. He did love his wife after all, you know? That cum called out. Buckets, gallons, a truckload after years. The world throbbed. The energy of the state, of their past bosses, of him, their current boss, of his wife, of the birds’ own aging eggs, it all pushed and coalesced into a rhythm and a beat that needed to be born. How many offices had locked doors, how many stairwells in the building, bathroom stalls on five floors, and how many copiers needed servicing? And so, after a year of warm gooey energy and a cold half of a bed, things began to manifest.
Manifest it did, in the most banal and predictable ways.
How many pens were dropped in a day? How many papers and orders mistyped so as to be retyped and resigned again? Sliding across the desk, a whisper of paper much like the whisper the zipper on a dress makes. The girls gathering for tea no one drank and cookies no one ate, they all thought about the things they had let him do to them. The things that made them hungry and also made them sick. The things that warmed them and also chilled them.
So many things, while each knew she was not unique, they all engaged in a fiction that they were the only one. This fiction was only broken when he would call two or three in to reprimand and worship his cock. For them it was always big, and they could feast upon his precum three ways without having to count the calories. It was those days, that they could barely meet each other’s eyes let alone the burning all-seeing gaze of his wife.
For ten months of the year, of all the years of their life, all the broken girls were cold. They were cold because it was the air, it was continental climate, and it was north of 50 degrees latitude. It was cold because it had always been cold and the ancestors mandated that it would always be cold. And the broken birds, they were cold even in the short short Spring because they had no spare meat on their bones. Not like his wife. She was never cold even during the long long Winter, she could stand in a blizzard, and the furnace in her heart and between her legs could power half the city.
For years, she tried to affect the qualities his ego needed, but women who are not broken, and have not been broken by their fathers, or brothers, or lovers, or mothers, can only give a facsimile. Even the best actresses, seem inauthentic, if they have no experience to draw upon. Did she draw on her college boyfriend who cheated on her with half of Delta Delta Delta? Or what about that time she had unprotected sex with a famous southern gothic author’s nephew in the desert and he then claimed to be an IV drug user? Or the three year relationship, where she slept and masturbated nightly next to a man 10 years her senior who had not fucked her in two and half years? Daddy issues? Maybe. Before marrying, she experienced somethings that could have broken her. Early on she was given too much responsibility. She grew up and raised and killed through abuse and neglect, a broken bird who cut herself and starved herself, and she said I will never be like that, I will never bear fruit I must nurture after failing so horribly with this unasked for job. When she married him, she thought that he was attracted to her wholeness and whorishness. She knew what she wanted, she knew it was her due, and so she took it.
But in discovering his need to save such broken girls, for him, for her husband she tried to be broken. She had pursued him, in fact every woman he had slept with had pursed him. That is why he needed now, in midlife to collect these girls. His wife, although she could play the game and be coy, his flesh knew the difference. It screamed old, confident, too meaty, too experienced, and too self-assured. All their years together, although filled with love and lust, well they brought him back to a fumbling boy, and memories of all the women who got away because he was too chicken-shit to make a move. In her presence he was both that boy, and after 20 years, he felt old, and that made him at the same time ancient – not young, not strong. The birds, their feeble wings never strong enough to launch them independently skyward, their absent appetites, all these things they made him a hunter and a caretaker, an experienced caring confident figure. His dick would always be big to them, and their holes always tight. Their mouths not deep enough because they knew no food and had had known even less cock. But because they were hungry they would rejoice in gagging on his meat. They would coo with pretty tear tracks streaming down their face “please sir, can I have some more?”
And so he spanked, and coddled, and fed his birds cum for about 6 months. Sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs or threes. He liked when they adorned themselves in different plumage and when they forgot to wear their underwear. He liked them on desks, and spread like banquets for his mouth and cock. He sometimes made them lick each other. They would squirm and like angels dancing on the head of a pin, he would spin them on the tip of his cock. He loved when they would suck and worship him on their knees under his desk as he took meetings, and discussed things with underlings and his wife.
How many mouths would fit on his cock and balls at a time, he was still trying to answer that question. The slow drag of lips and teeth up and down, sometimes leaving lipstick trails sometimes lodging in throats to blow a nourishing load to a particularly deserving bird.
He thought he was so secret and that his wife didn’t know. But come on. Really? And so, that time of year rolled around. It was his birthday once again. And the wife feeling bad for the hungry little birds, decided to give them all what they needed.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6e0ha3/prequel_the_bosss_birthday_cuck_f_bdsm_trigger