Eight years on, and my husband had changed. He’d become selfish and violent and crude, the kind of man I counseled women about at the Crisis Center,...the kind of man that women needed to fear and escape. And I swore I’d never take him back. But he came back. Contrite, humble. Wanting to work it out. Warily, pityingly, I took him back in. And now I was so, so, so glad that I did. Our marriage. Our marriage was saved. With a thumb I fiddled with my wedding ring. I’d get to keep it on. And I’d get. Although I wouldn’t agree to it, I also wouldn’t have stopped him. If rather than asking, he had unbuttoned my pants and reached his rough hands in to grab my cock, I would have let him. He would have been free to pull my jeans and tighty-whitey underwear down to my ankles. Then he could have rubbed his callused fingers over cock and balls. I would be confused, but my cock would have hardened and it would have felt unfamiliar but good.Hewould have taken my hard cock as his permission to sink to. More

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