Life Continues – Part 3

We are moving into month six now since our past was exposed.

For me, there are still mornings where I wake up and remember—she gave her body and her love to someone else while living with me. Some days, that is still too much.

At the same time, I’ve come to realise that my emotionally abusive behaviour—what I can now see as near-narcissistic tendencies—makes it almost a miracle that we are even still here, still willing to try to build something new.

It does not remove her decision to find another man.

But deep down, looking back now, I know she should have walked out and divorced me then. If I could speak to that 28-, 30-, or 32-year-old version of her, I would tell her not to stay. Life offers more than spending your youth in a place where you are not emotionally safe. No reward is worth that.

These thoughts sit in opposition.

On one side, anger at her unfaithfulness.

On the other, when I step out of the “betrayed husband” mindset, I struggle to blame her for trying to find another life. In truth, I feel sadness that she stayed another fifteen years, raising a child inside something that was already broken.

We did have good times.

We enjoyed life. Loved each other in our own way. Built things. Shared experiences.

Even with my regular emotional outbursts.

We both came from difficult childhoods.

The fact that we made it this far at all is… surprising.

—

In Part 1 of Life Continues, my attachment-driven need for the relationship started to fade.

For about two to three weeks, our physical intimacy dropped off—once a week at most.

I think she was testing something.

Pulling back from keeping me physically satisfied. Watching how I would respond.

We had deep conversations during that time. Some of them brutally honest. At least once or twice, we both said out loud that we might be nearing the end.

And then, a few days later, we would find ourselves together again.

Like nothing had happened.

The last two weeks shifted again.

It felt like she was trying to get me to decline sex.

And instead, she took me at every opportunity.

A hand job in the shower.

Sixty-nine after showering.

It got to the point where I had to verbally decline—just to see what she would do.

She would make big eyes. Laugh. Swing her hips.

Pout like someone who just had their sweets taken away.

I even ended up physically raw a few times.

That has never happened to me before.

—
Three days ago, after a shower, I pushed it a bit.

While she was in the bathroom, I held my phone through a small crack in the door—just enough so she could see it.

When she asked what the hell I was doing, I told her I was getting a souvenir for my long work hours.

A video.

Something to look at later.

I wasn’t actually filming anything.

Just teasing her.

Pushing.

Seeing how far I could go.

She wasn’t impressed.

A little pissed.

I just laughed it off, made coffee, and went to sit on the patio like nothing had happened.

—

My phone pinged, and I opened WhatsApp to a video note from her.

She was lying on the bedspread. Naked.

In the video, she slowly panned from her head to her toes, and back again—making soft “ohh la la” sounds like a teasing cat.

I was instantly aroused.

You need to understand—she would NEVER film herself naked or allow photos to be taken. NEVER.

I sat there, stunned, watching the video over and over for the next ten minutes.

Finally breaking out of it, I went to the room to tell her how much I liked it.

She was still on the bed. Still naked. Scrolling through social media.

She gave me a sideways look and said,
“I was wondering if you would join me?”

It was 9am. I had an online meeting coming up and messages waiting.

I said I had some Slack messages to respond to—but the look she gave me made that irrelevant.

I dropped my pants, underwear, shirt, and vest, and grabbed the lube.

Out of nowhere, her favourite—the OnePlus pink dual vibrating rabbit—appeared, and within moments she was on her back, already lost in it, moaning freely.

As she orgasmed, I didn’t wait a second and entered her, my penis already straining for release. I could see the veins pulsing with my heartbeat as I drove into her while she was still contracting.

Her body went rigid, then arched upward—both her lower and upper body lifting—as I continued, not pacing, not holding back.

She latched onto my nipple and bit down.

The shock and sensation overwhelmed me. I felt myself release into her as I was pulling back. On the next thrust, there was almost no friction—my release already coating everything.

I pulled back and drove into her again a few times, each stroke forcing more of my semen out of her, splashing against my thighs.

As I went soft and slipped out of her, the sound around me faded under the rush of blood in my ears.

I stood there for a moment, then turned to shower—already aware I had just missed another Zoom call.

—

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the shower—fresh, rushed, and thankful I shave my head. No time wasted there.

I jumped onto a Zoom call with my boss.

His first words:
“Where were you in the 9 a.m. meeting—and what the hell were you doing?”

I replied, without thinking,
“Yes… yes, I was.”

Silence.

The anger on his face held for a second… then cracked.

Confusion first.
Then recognition.
Then—there it was—a smile he was trying very hard to suppress.

He coughed, tried to recover, failed, and let out a short laugh.

Shaking his head, he said,
“Finish your coffee. Talk in the stand-up.”

And just like that… meeting over.

—-
That Tuesday evening, I received one of those newsletter-type emails from a women-owned business where we had previously bought some intimate items.

The subject line:
“Getting bored? Need some kink?”

I opened it.

One item stood out immediately—a “Lux Fetish Bed Spreader.”

Now, for those who don’t know (I didn’t), it’s a strap system forming a large X that sits under your mattress, on top of the bed base. Four metal rings extend outward—two at the head, two at the foot of the bed. Those rings are used to clip carabiner-style wrist and ankle cuffs. The cuffs are velcro-fastened restraints, adjustable to fit wrists and ankles, and once clipped in, the person is effectively held spread-eagled, using their own body weight to keep the system in place.

Discreet. Functional. Slightly dangerous.

I added it to the cart.

Then a feather tickler.

Then a penis sleeve.

Before I could second-guess myself, I paid and completed the order.

Delivery estimate: five days.

Perfect. We had a bank holiday coming up—I thought I had time to figure out how I was going to explain this.

The next morning, Wednesday, I got a confirmation that everything was in stock except one item, and it would ship once all items arrived.

Fine. No rush.

Until Thursday.

06:56 — “Out for delivery.”

Uh oh!

I thought I had at least until Friday, maybe even the weekend, to plan this.

At around 11 a.m., the estate security office called her to say there was a delivery.

As she started to say we weren’t expecting anything, I yelled from the loft:
“It’s for me—3D printing supplies. Delivery code 107.”

I knew immediately—I was screwed.

The pink rabbit had already been risky enough.

I went to collect the package at the gate around 12:30.

Walking back, I moved quickly—too quickly—drawing a look from her as I headed straight upstairs to the loft.

She messaged me on WhatsApp, asking what was in the box.

I replied out loud, “3D filament,” while unpacking.

Another message. She wasn’t buying it.

I took out the penis sleeve.

Already getting hard, I slipped into it and sent her a cropped photo—just enough to show part of my scrotum and the sleeve. Non-descriptive.

She replied with a question mark.

I sent a second, clearer image.

My scrotum pulled tight by the fastening strap. The transparent sleeve extending beyond my penis, exaggerated, obvious.

She responded:
“Ohh la la.”
Followed by a short video of a couple kissing.

I sent another picture—this time of the wrist cuffs and the feather tickler.

From the lounge, I heard a sharp intake of breath.

She started typing.

Stopped.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

I messaged her again, asking her to respond.

She replied:
She wasn’t sure about this.
She didn’t know how to take the purchase.

I went downstairs to make coffee and toasted sandwiches.

She avoided eye contact.

She asked once, “Where is it?”

“In my cupboard,” I replied.

She left the kitchen.

Came back about fifteen minutes later.

Her face unreadable.

Not good.

After a minute or two, I asked, “And?”

She looked at me and said,
“Not sure what to think… ” and stepped away from me. Not good at all.

I plated the sandwiches, poured coffee, and we ate like nothing was wrong.

I asked if she was okay.

Same answer:
Unsure.

Knowing her history, I kept it simple:
“I won’t force you into anything you don’t want.”

We finished lunch in silence.

As I made another coffee, she stood up and told me, in a shaky voice,
“Come talk to me in the bedroom.”

No smile.

Just tension.

—
As I entered the bedroom with the coffee, she moved past me and pointed at it.

“I need to pee.”

I stood there, not sure what was about to happen next. She wasn’t friendly. Not impressed.

Before I could turn, I heard her behind me.

Her hand came through my pants from behind, grabbing hold of me, firm.

“Strip.”

She let go.

I turned.

She was already naked. Completely naked. A blush rising across her chest.

She walked to my cupboard, took out the bag, and said,
“You might be a bit late for your next meeting… we’re going to be tied up.”

I didn’t fully register it.

I stripped.

I laid the straps out in an X under the mattress, on top of the base, adjusting the lengths—two rings at the head, two at the foot.

She picked up one of the cuffs, tested it on her wrist.

I got hard instantly. My erection jumped up against my stomach.

She looked down at me and said,
“Put on the sleeve.”

I did.

As I finished and reached for her, she stepped back.

“On the bed. On your back.”

With the sleeve holding the blood flow, I stayed hard—but without it, I would have lost it right there.

“Lie down.”

I did. Slowly.

Flat on my back. The sleeve pointing straight up. No control. No idea where this was going.

She fastened the cuffs onto both my wrists—then pulled them together and clipped them onto the same ring above my head.

As she leaned over me, her breasts brushing across my face, she locked my hands in place.

Then she oiled the extender.

Tried to mount me.

Stopped.

Frustration.

“Nope. Too big.”

She sat next to me and started stroking me through the sleeve. The sensation dull. Muted.

Not what I’m used to.

I don’t have issues with control—but I rarely last long with her. She knows exactly what to do.

She looked at me, smiling, picked up the feather tickler… and ran it lightly across my scrotum.

Soft. Controlled. Pleasant.

I closed my eyes.

Then—

A soft *whack.*

Pain hit.

She had tapped my balls with the handle.

Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to make a point.

Another one. This time on my stomach.

Then again.

Back to my balls.

My erection didn’t drop.

She assumed I liked it.

(I only explained later—it was the sleeve doing its job.)

She looked at me, surprised. Curious. A bit delighted.

“What shall we do…” she said, almost to herself.

I answered,
“I want to taste you.”

—

She looks at me, edges herself up, and swings into a 69 position—sitting on my chest.

With my arms tied above my head, I can’t grab her like I usually do. She shuffles back, pinning my arms between her knees.

Locked.

No control.

Without a thought, she lowers herself toward my face—but just out of reach. I have to crane my neck to get to her.

My tongue reaches out, hungry, desperate to take her—but I barely touch her before she pulls away again.

Frustration hits immediately.

With her weight on my chest and my hands useless, I can’t pull her toward me. I can’t take her.

She rocks back slowly. I catch her clit for a second—just enough—then she pulls away again.

Teasing me.

Teasing herself.

Then suddenly—she shifts.

Pushes back harder onto her knees, pressing her folds into my face.

My nose drives into her as my lips latch onto her clit.

She starts moving her hips forward and back in a slow, controlled motion—my nose pressing into her, deeper, while I suck her clit.

I try to move my head—adjust—but she drops her weight down through her knees, pressing into my arms.

My own arms push into my head.

Immobilised.

She rocks back again—taking me deeper.

I latch onto her clit again, but the moment I try to move, she clamps down harder with her knees.

Holding me exactly where she wants me.

Message received.

—

For the next ten minutes—maybe more—she uses my face.

Grinding my nose into her as deep as she can, shifting in small, precise movements—placing my mouth exactly where she wants it.

Not where I want it.

Where she wants it.

I feel her movements change.

Harder.

Faster.

My nose grinding into her.

I push back with my mouth, adding pressure—just enough teeth behind my lips—and strain against the restraints, wanting to grab her, pull her down, take control.

But I can’t.

I’m locked in.

Then it hits.

A sudden release.

Cooler than her body.

Thin. Watery.

I know immediately—she just squirted. (note: read about Skene gland secretion)

It floods my face, running over my mouth, my beard, into my nose. I can barely breathe with my nose buried in her, but she doesn’t stop.

She keeps riding me.

Her movements break—no longer controlled. Irregular. Harder. Faster.

I can feel her heat building.

Then she presses down harder.

My nose forced deeper into her.

I feel her muscles tighten—gripping, pulling—like she’s trying to take me in.

Then she comes.

Warm. Thick. Different.

Her body pumps against my face, pushing it into me, and I stop breathing completely—afraid of inhaling her as it spills around my nose.

I catch a breath through my mouth—still locked onto her clit, working her, not stopping.

She doesn’t slow down.

She rides it out.

Fully.

—

She presses down hard on my face, her knees gripping me from the sides as her body starts to shudder.

A deep, hungry moan escapes her.

Then she collapses onto my chest.

I finally get air—pulling it through my mouth, lungs burning.

She rolls off me and looks down at my face.

There’s a flicker in her expression—shock… maybe surprise.

I know what she’s seeing.

I’m covered.

Thick, clear fluid from my forehead down to my chin. My beard soaked, clumped. My eyes barely open with it pooling.

And I can’t even turn my head.

My arms are still tied. No leverage. No escape from it.

She turns away from me—almost avoiding it—and reaches for the sleeve again.

Tries to position herself over me.

Then stops.

Frustration.

“Nothing is going in me after this.”

I know exactly what she means.

After she orgasms like that, there’s a small window—seconds—where she’s open.

Miss it, and everything shuts down.

Tight.

Locked.

Five… ten minutes before anything goes in again.
—

Avoiding my face—still coated in her—she leans over and unclips my wrists.

My arms are dead.

Heavy. Numb. I can barely move them.

No pause.

She turns, gets onto her hands and knees, and pushes her ass back toward me.

Shaking it.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Something she hasn’t done in weeks.

I get up beside the bed, the sleeve still on, and try to enter her.

She reaches back, trying to guide me.

A minute passes.

Nothing.

“Nope.”

The head of the sleeve barely pushes in before she stops.

Without thinking, I grab the sleeve and yank.

Pain hits instantly—sharp—reminding me too late about the strap locked around my balls.

I don’t stop.

I rip it off anyway.

Desperation.

I grab her hips, line myself up properly, and this time I go slow—finding the angle.

Then I push in.

She’s tight.

Her body still trying to keep me out—but she’s soaked.

Completely soaked.

I pull back—

Then slam into her.

Hard.

Her muscles fight it—but lose.

I hold her in place and start driving into her.

Fast.

Each stroke landing harder.

My balls slapping against her with every thrust.

It doesn’t take long.

Two minutes—maybe less.

I slow down.

Pull back slightly.

Then push in again, slower this time—finding that exact pressure point on my head.

Holding it there.

Fighting the urge to lose control too early.

—

I feel it building.

Deep.

Starting low in my abdomen—spreading, tightening.

Like something reaching for my groin from the inside.

My scrotum pulls tight.

A cold tingling runs from the base, up along the shaft.

Then heat.

I feel it move—inside me—through my penis toward the tip.

I time it.

On the next stroke, I push in hard—and stay there.

Held deep inside her.

Then it hits.

I cum.

Hard.

Deep in her.

I feel her inside—tight, warm—then slipping as everything floods.

I pull back slightly.

Then push in again.

Slow.

Controlled.

Again.

Letting her muscles milk it out of me.

Every last bit.

I repeat it—short strokes—holding it there, feeling it drain out of me.

Then I pull out completely.

I look down at her.

On her hands and knees.

Legs slightly spread.

Back lowered.

Open.

Still stretched—from the sleeve, from me.

She doesn’t close up like she does on her back.

I see her body react—her abdomen tightening in small pulses.

Her muscles start pushing.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

On the third contraction, my semen starts to spill from her.

Thick strands.

Hanging.

Then dripping.

And something in me—something primitive—kicks in.

Seeing her like that.

Open.

Marked.

My cum leaving her body.

It hits something deep.

Something I don’t even try to explain.

Just… there.

—

A few minutes later, in the shower, she looks at me and asks if I enjoyed that.

I don’t answer immediately.

I guide her eyes downward.

My penis still hard. Swollen. The foreskin pulled tight, unable to close over the head.

For someone my age, not losing an erection after orgasm… that’s not normal for me.

She reaches out.

Wraps her hand around me.

Starts to stroke.

I exhale, take her hand gently, and move it away.

“Later,” I tell her.

I want to hear her first.

I ask her how she feels.

She grins.

And answers without hesitation.

“The best part?” she says. “I didn’t have to worry about your hands getting in the way.”

I frown slightly.

She continues.

“I could position your nose. Your tongue. Exactly where I wanted it. The right pressure. The right place. And just… stay there.”

She looks at me.

“You always move. You fiddle. You break it.”

I stare at her.

Ask her if I really mess it up that much.

She doesn’t hesitate.

“You just can’t hold still where I need you. You keep changing things. It breaks my concentration.”

Then she smiles.

“Locking your hands away… and holding your head in place… that was the best oral I’ve ever had.”

That lands.

Harder than expected.

I mention how she completely flooded my face.

She shrugs it off.

“I wasn’t faking,” she says. “That’s the best I’ve ever had.”

No hesitation.

No embarrassment.

Just truth.

She adds that the sleeve felt too big.

I laugh and tell her that back in our younger days, I could fit my whole hand inside her.

She closes her eyes for a moment.

Remembers.

Then looks straight at me.

“Yes,” she says. “You need to warm me up properly next time.”

I process that.

Quickly.

Also aware I’m about to miss my 5pm meeting.

She sees it.

That look on my face.

Smirks.

“Oh… you wanted to be in charge,” she says.

I start to smile.

She cuts it off.

“…maybe next time.”

A pause.

Then—

“…but probably not.”