Anniversary
by Marcia R. Hooper
Copyright© 2025 by Marcia R. Hooper
Erotica Sex Story: A mother of three recounts her submissive relationship with her husband, and things become more spicy...
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Drunk/Drugged Wife Watching MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Sadistic Torture Swinging Interracial Black Male White Female Anal Sex Enema Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Public Sex Size .
I lay on my bed in the dark, typing. My husband, via my Apple laptop computer, kept me company. With my hips elevated on three pillows, my thighs spread as comfortably as I could get them, and my rectum practically filled with KY lubricant, I still ached.
“This is crazy,” I wrote.
He came back: “Half an hour. Not a second less.” It had been in me now for five minutes.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things?” I complained.
“Because you love me,” he wrote back.
“I don’t love you that much!”
“LOL.”
The truth was, I did love him that much. Enough to put two dildos up my ass, one in my mouth and one in my vagina if he wanted me to.
“I miss you so much,” I typed. He had been gone a week and it felt like a month, a year. I dreaded when he went away.
“I miss you too. The kids asleep?”
“They better be.”
“The bedroom door unlocked?”
“It’s open a crack,” I wrote, the way he had instructed.
“And what happens if you hear the kids?”
“I pray to Jesus for mercy?”
I am a thirty-three-year-old mother of three. My name is Jeannie and I live in Germantown, Maryland. We have a three-story single-family home in a development off North Lake. I’d tell you the street address but I don’t want to get raped. I work at a Cadillac dealership in Laurel.
My husband is a software salesman for Hewlett-Packard. His name is Todd. He is a year younger than I, which makes my submissiveness to him all the more humiliating.
“How’s it going?” he wrote.
“It really hurts. Where’d you get this thing, anyway?” He’d left it like a time bomb in my lingerie drawer. When he told me where it was and I went to get it, my mouth dropped open. It was nine inches long, thickly veined around the shaft with a rudimentary set of testicles at its base and a bulbous head. “And why black?” I asked.
“Because it’ll hurt more.” Eleven black men had taken me anally over the years, but none were as painful as this. “I got it in Beltsville,” he typed. “At a lingerie shop.”
What kind of lingerie shop sells huge black dildos? “I feel like the George Washington Tunnel,” I told him.
My oldest daughter is eleven years old. Her name is Sarah. She was born when I was twenty-two years old. Erin is nine, and Rachel is seven. Todd and I talk about having a fourth child; we’d like a boy. We’d name him Todd, Jr., after his daddy. Sarah knows I’m submissive.
“Do you know how embarrassed I’d be if Sarah walked in?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be pretty.”
Not pretty indeed. She has seen me getting my bottom spanked a number of times. It terrified her at first, then it amused her, now she really thinks it’s cool. I’m not allowed to spank the children. It’s counterproductive, he says.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
I looked at the clock. “Eleven minutes.”
“Still hurt?”
“Not as bad.”
“Imagine what you look like.”
“Thanks.”
The night of our wedding, Todd tied me face-down to the bed. We were in the Catskills, in a log cabin with a hot tub and a huge bed. He blindfolded me with my wedding stockings, gagged me with my white panties, tied a knot in my hair with one strap of my brassiere, strapped his belt around my middle, and secured the other end of my bra strap to the belt. He took pictures of me lying there spreadeagled, my head yanked back, drool dangling from my lips. Then he mounted me and filmed that with a video camera.
“I have to buy you one of those fucking-machines,” he wrote. “Imagine you with one of those.”
“Just imagine.”
“If I bought three of them for you, you could take it up the ass, in the pussy, and the mouth at the same time.”
“Just imagine,” I repeated.
“On second thought, I wouldn’t want you getting addicted.”
“Like my vibrator?” I asked. I have a problem with my vibrator.
On our one-year anniversary, he got me stoned on pot and cocaine. When I was sufficiently screwed up, he had me take off my clothes and walk naked down the middle of Rockville Pike. It was three a.m. on a Sunday morning, and it was raining and foggy, but passing motorists slammed on their brakes to watch me. I stepped light as a ballet dancer on the cold, wet grass of the center island, chirping various Madonna songs and laughing insanely. Imagine if I’d been arrested.
“Anything going on yet?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
As preparation for this, I had taken a warm water enema. I took it on the bed, on the pillows, the red bag hanging from the canopy, the black hose running down to the white nozzle up my rectum, the warm water coursing through my insides. In exactly these details, I had described it for my husband. When the discomfort became intense, he allowed me to rush to the bathroom to relieve myself. I’d need relief again. I could tell.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“My rectum.”
“How good it feels?”
“How good it’ll feel tomorrow.”
“It won’t be that bad.”
Not bad, he said.
On our second anniversary, he took me to a wonderful restaurant downtown. He bought me the most expensive item on the menu--I still can’t pronounce its name-- let me pick my own wine, then surprised me with strawberries and whipped cream in our motel room. He took me to bed and made love to me three times in four hours. He never tied me up, he never spanked me, he never made me hurt. In the morning, I had a love bite on my neck. He’s so full of surprises.
“Is it completely inside you?” he asked.
“As far as it will go.”
“Bottomed out?”
The anniversary after Erin was born, I came home to find a two-foot-long ... something, on the dining room table. I had picked it, totally at a loss. It was composed of red plastic balls, one after the other, tapering to the end. I honestly didn’t know what it was. Todd had shown me. They hadn’t bottomed out.
My insides rumbled. I shifted my position. The “balls” at the end of the shaft bounced up and down and touched my thighs. It was such a strange feeling.
“Have you been a good girl?” he asked.
I enumerated: “I did the cleaning, paid the bills, went to the grocery store, got the car washed, took Sarah to get her hair cut, bought you a pair of Dockers and two new Polo-Ralph Lauren shirts at the Costco, got you some underwear and socks, got the underwear I showed you in the Victoria’s Secret catalog, took my enema and am now lying here with John Dillinger up my rear end. I hope I’ve been good.”
“Have you thought about what I said?”
He wants me to pierce my clitoris.
On our fourth anniversary, we visited Niagara Falls. I had expected droll but was pleasantly surprised. The kids had fun and we rode the boat close to the Falls and took the tour through the cliffs and behind the roaring water on the American side. Later we risked life and limb crossing the Niagara Gorge in a gondola. Todd sprang for a helicopter ride and I nearly died of fright crossing the Falls. Everyone found it quite amusing. Todd called me a wuss.
Our second night there, Friday, we took the kids to International Village and to all the attractions on the Hill. We decorated ourselves with cotton candy, had foot-long hot dogs and a bucket of French fries and visited the Falls for the light show. Saturday night we had dinner in the revolving restaurant atop the Skylon, and I hid my head traveling up the side in another gondola. When the kids fell asleep in the other bed, Todd tied me hand and foot to the bed frame with motel towels, gagged me with my brassiere, put my panties over my head, then proceeded to drive me mad with his tongue between my legs, a battery-powered vibrator and pieces of ice. The ice was the worst.
“You’d look cute with a stud down there,” he wrote.
“I have a stud down there,” I replied. “His name is Todd.”
“But it’s so fashionable, Babe. I bet all your friends have them.”
“My friends wear studs in their ears, Todd, not in their panties.”
“Dana has a nipple ring.”
“Dana has big nipples,” I said. “To go along with her big breasts.” Dana is our next-door neighbor. She showed Todd her new adornment in person. Todd hasn’t suggested any nipple rings for me.
To cure my postpartum depression following Rachel’s birth, Todd took me to Atlantic City. We stayed at the Trump Plaza Friday and Saturday night, which for me is as affordable as a Fabergé egg. While in the hot tub Friday night, we fell into a discussion of swinging. I confessed a deep, dark secret: I wanted a black man.
He sat straight up in the tub. Oh, no, I thought: a spanking for sure. But he shocked me right back by asking if I would like to. Of course, I said yes.
If Atlantic City were possible that weekend, I’m sure Todd would have arranged it. But even Todd can’t work miracles. Instead, he made arrangements through an interracial website--yes, they have such things -- and contacted a dozen applicants. I selected four that I liked, and we met. I hadn’t expected a gang-bang. In order of size, they were Lashawn Freshwater, Seann Chambers, Damon Hill, and Donnell Willis. Three of them were married and had done this before. They were surprisingly nervous. I have never been so scared. I have no words for what they did to me that night.
I typed: “Fifteen minutes.”
“Is it moving at all?”
“Only when I move.”
“It’s really in there, huh?”
“Like a sausage in its skin.”
There is a term for what Todd does to me during anal sex that is almost as demeaning as the act. I worried about that now. “Am I going to do anything else with this thing after I take it out?”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
“Do you want to?”
He delights in teasing me. Torture is a better word. He rents movies and lets me see what’s in store for me that night. I’ve tried to impress on him how unhygienic what I do is; he points out how many women in the flicks do it. I say yes, but they do it for the money. Most of my black partners have wanted me to, but it’s enough that they have me anally. They seem to consider white women deserving of anal sex.
“I’m just glad you keep that practice to ourselves,” I wrote.
For our sixth anniversary, Todd took me to Hawaii. Sarah was five years old then, Erin three, and Rachel a little over a year. We had discussed going alone, had even come to that decision a month before the flight, then realized how unfair that would be to Sarah. Even at five, Sarah understood Hawaii.
“You have to promise me something, though,” he told me a week before the trip. I was in the baby’s room, changing her diaper. He came up behind me and pressed an unexpected erection between my cheeks.
“Oh?” I asked, at once interested and suspicious.
He grinned. “I want a public blow job.”
I looked around for Sarah, old enough now to repeat things, if not understand them. “What do you mean, ‘public’?”
His erection grew harder. “As in public, where everyone can see you,” he said. I shivered all over. “Yeah,” he said. “That kind of public.”
In Honolulu, we baked on the sand, cavorted in the surf, took extraordinary tours of the island, got too much sun and not enough sleep, dealt with a sick baby when Rachel came down with a cold, lost Sarah for a panic-filled hour and a half at a street market in Waikiki. We also offered six men the opportunity to have sex with me after watching me suck Todd’s cock. Four of them had accepted.
I typed: “Eighteen minutes.”
“Stop counting down. Enjoy your remaining minutes.”
“I luxuriate in my agony,” I wrote.
“Spoil-sport.”
The truth was, I was beginning to enjoy this. Nothing had ever stayed up me so long, and my anus was either getting accustomed to the presence or had just given up. Besides, it beat getting rode until someone decided to come in me; that really made me sore.
I wrote guiltily: “It’s not so bad. Pleasurable even, perhaps. Just not habit-forming, I hope.”
“For me ... or for you?”
I wondered which option was worse.
On our seventh anniversary, Todd took me to visit my grandparents. That sounds corny, but my grandparents live in Paraguay. We took the kids and spent three long weeks battling mosquitoes, the military, foreign tourists, foreign journalists, bad food and bad water, grabby locals who delighted in pinching or patting my ass, really scary mafiosa’s who kidnapped American women, raped them, and sometimes gave them back for ransom. This conversation took place in our rental car.
“Are we almost there yet, Mom?”
“No, and take that away from your sister. Erin, no! Todd!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Pull over?”
“Here?”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“Look around you, dear.”
“Never mind. Keep going.”
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