By twenty I was her house-pet, bleeding with her because she'd wanted to die, loving her through the blood and the pain, watching, over and over again, as she got drunk, brought someone home, wanted to hold me while he fucked her, kiss her, comfort her, fuck her until she finally came, nails deep in my back, slammed desperately close to me, hot and slick and wet, all to prove I loved her, and I did, I did.
Beth was my life, my home, my world, everything to me, and I was everything she wanted me to be.
She brought me women, she picked out men, I even dated a few for her, because she loved to go out, have them watch while we made out, then go back home without them so she could suck me off.
And Beth...loved, loved to watch me with other women, loved to join in, but still, in the end, I came for her, with her, and she for me.
There was only one line I drew:
No matter how she teased, no matter how she begged, even once when she cried, the only time her tears didn't change my mind, I wouldn't sleep with any of the guys she brought home. I'd hold her, kiss her, anything else she wanted, but I didn't want them to touch me and they were as uncomfortable with me as I was with them. We touched her, but we kept a respectful distance from one another.
Until one day, she crossed that line, too.
Beth wanted kids, wanted them so much it was one of the things she cried about, because for various reasons, she couldn't have them. When I promised to have them for her, the smile she threw my way, the kiss she gave, the heart-filling touch in how we made love after that made me think this...was heaven.
