It was one of those moments that gives a punch of sobriety in the nose after existing for a month or so inside a basic haze. I surveyed the bookshelf for a tome to get lost in when I saw a vision of who I'd been before my wife became my mistress who made me clean her pussy after men fucked her, the men often fucking her in my presence. I'd put up measures of resistance at first but she'd slickly eased me into a position of doing what she told me or not even waiting for her to tell me, but I'd become all but thoroughly brainwashed and trained to crawl to her and slurp her just-fucked sloppy pussy.

But the awakening at the bookshelf made me long for being the regular guy I'd been before and married to a sweet girl I could trust who was devoted to no other man but me. I decided to get us back to that place. A pervert. That's what she'd turned me into, or I'd allowed her to turn me into; a rubbery sniveling pervert. I tried to remember the last time I fucked her in the normal manner, as in fucking her (on the rare times she 'allowed' my cock inside her) without that wickedly velvety evidence of cum from another man. But I had to stop when the memory began to phase into multiple months. I determined to maintain a vigilant lookout for the first opportunity to tell my wife I didn't want to play this game anymore. If anyone would be calling the shots, it ought to, and should be me.

The opportunity came quicker than I expected. I came home one late afternoon to find her curled on the couch, reading a book. After trading kisses, I asked if we could talk. My heart jumped with joy from feeling that mushy sensation of recognizing the old familiar sparks.

"Look, I'm not sure I want... I don't want to do... I want us to go back to the way we were."

"Okay." That's all she said, or really she sort of sang it. Simple, easy, agreeable. She repeated her "okay," and gave me a sweet kiss and returned to her book.

"Really? You don't mind?"

"Baby, I would never, ever, ever, actually force you to do what you don't really want to do. If you really don't want me to fuck other men anymore or for me to order you to clean cum from me, then I won't. We won't."

My being filling with that long-forgotten masculine pride, I simply nodded a thanks and turned to go change, and thought about suggesting we go out for dinner.

But she stopped me with her gentle hand on my wrist. Catching me by the eyes, she said, "if you change your mind, you just let me know."

True to her word, she never behaved in any flirtatious manner when we went out in public; never once gave me the slightest reason to feel that maddening mix of cock-hardening jealousy. When we fucked we did not really fuck but we made love, and even when we made love when she'd come home after being out, I never felt that telltale velvety slickness. No longer did I struggle to hold my orgasm for at least a long couple minutes, but my endurance began to return to what it was before we'd embarked on what I considered a very perverse adventure.

Whatever thoughts she entertained I cannot know because I did not bother to ask, or I guess I was really afraid to ask and risk learning details sure to upset our restored union.

Because my thoughts began to become nothing but vivid memories that got my cock hard and begging me to stroke it, but I dare not do that because I dare not cum to thoughts of what my wife so easily directed me to do; making me watch another man (or sometimes men) fuck her; making me lick her pussy and no matter how many of those men had cum in it, whether she would sit on my helpless face or beckon me to crawl to her dripping slippery cunt.

I assured myself this was just a temporary phase and before long I would no longer contend with such thoughts, memories, temptations to masturbate, ejaculating due to remembering the unbelievably erotic headspace I came to constantly exist within.

But instead of abating, the thoughts, memories, temptations, only increased, until one late afternoon I returned home to find her curled on the couch, reading a book.

Unlike the previous time, I could not spit the words out but only stood there in a state of trembling, until she finally asked if it would help if I got on my knees.

She hitched her skirt so I saw she wore no panties. And as I lovingly swept my tongue all over her pussy, and sucked the scent as deep as I could, she began to moan and sigh in that delicious wicked way that acted as good as if her fingers would fondle my sensitized balls.

"Do you want me to call one of my boyfriends?"

I nodded as I licked her slick cunt lips and sucked her juicy succulence.

"Baby, I can't hear you.” Combed her fingers through my hair. Voice as sweet as her touches, said, “Does my bitch hubby want me to call one of my boyfriends?"

"Y-yes."

"A good bitch hubby will say 'please'."

"Plea-please."

"I will. And I will make you clean up all the cum because that's what a good bitch hubby does. Correct?"

Her lips and clit were so fat to the touch of my tongue and her wetness increased so I drank from her, as I nodded and almost came in my pants when she patted my head and said, "good bitch hubby, very, very, good."