I can’t quite believe my husband and I have been together for 14 years. And in those very early days, he groped my tits as if he owned them, he groped my ass like he’d never groped another, he filled my cunt over and over with hard, girthy cock and thick, sticky cum. And I loved it. I was his. I wanted him to take me over and over. And he did. Two and three times a day he fucked me, my cunt got very used to being filled very quickly.

My first period came, and far from slowing down or stopping fucking me because of it, he fucked me more. I always craved sex during my period and he was the first man to oblige. And we barely cleaned up from one lot before he was in me again, my bloody cunt being a magnet for his hard cock. And each time he did it, it felt that he took me again. His blood-soaked cock was in me, no matter what, taking me no matter what. I loved it. I was still his.

And then my cunt got a little uncomfortable. It needed some rest. And so, desperate for him to continue taking me over and over, I offered him my asshole. And he was kind and gentle and understanding, and well versed with fucking assholes, so even the first time, he started slow, but grew to be huge and strong with his thrusts. I didn’t like anal before, but with him, my asshole wanted to be taken, just as much as my cunt did, and I loved it. I was even more his.

Around the same time as the fourteenth anniversary of us being together, it was also the eighth anniversary of this blog. I thought I’d get bored of blogging by now. I thought no one would read it. I thought no one would like it. None of those turned out to be true. All the writing, all the memories. I’m incredibly horny all the time. My cunt is excited all the time. It wants to be filled all the time. Memory is powerful. My cunt is needy.

Also around the same time, it is the second anniversary of our free-use. I thought we’d get bored of that too, bored of being interrupted, tired of being used. I thought our cunts and asses would be worse for wear for all the sex. I thought someone would drop out or it would fold. None of those turned out to be true either. Over time, we grew to need more cock, we grew to need more use. My cunt is needier than ever.

Even an eight person gang bang didn’t sate it. It’s lust to be taken, it’s lust to be filled was growing more and more, and my asshole wasn’t far behind.

Ever since my husband and I got together, he liked marking and celebrating anniversaries, even sexualising anniversaries that weren’t sexual in themselves. He liked doing things to take me over and over again. I had a lust for a filled cunt, for a stretched asshole. And he always made anniversaries count.

The anniversary of us getting together is always celebrated on our own, just the two of us, emphasising our closeness and bond. But since our tenth anniversary of being together, he’s required me to orgasm the same number of times as the anniversary. This year, fourteen. He’s got 24 hours, but there’s just him. We both have to take the day off work. It is so tiring. Satisfying, but tiring.

He uses a spreader bar to keep my legs spread, to keep my cunt available to his hand, to his mouth, to his cock. My cunt barely has time to recover from cumming before he starts again. It gets so sensitive. My cunt needs him to stop, is crying out for him to stop. He knows the fight I have between cunt and brain. And he knows the brain will win. The cunt will have to put up with it. The cunt craves it really. I have orgasms to have. It has no choice.

And those orgasms arrive, as sure as night follows day. He forces my cunt through its refusal, til that orgasm builds again, til my cunt spasms again, gets wet again, sometimes even squirts. It gets milked again for every drop of girl cum, every drop of squirt.

It’s relentless. He’s relentless. I love relentless. My cunt loves it somewhat less. Still, it doesn’t have much choice.

And this year, we mirrored that first evening when we got together. We went out for an Indian (although this time, I had his cum dripping out of my cunt all the time we were eating). We watched a comedy DVD (the same one as fourteen years ago, although this time, he played with my cunt, he wanked me the entire time we were watching it).

Then we kissed, properly snogged. Although this time, the snogs were accompanied by hard wanking. I came mid snog. One of the fourteen. He didn’t stop snogging me. Or wanking me. I was his. He was doing as he wanted. And my body loved it. My cunt loved it.

Right throughout the day, more often than not, my cunt was filled. Cock when it was able, fingers or dildos when it wasn’t. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t think. I was just a creator of wetness in his hands. I had no will. I just did as he wanted. My cunt just did what it was told.

I can’t explain how overwhelming it was, how much he just played my body like an instrument, over and over on a whim. It’s almost like he was reminding me every second that I used to think I was a one and done girl, reminding me that he made me this way, made me crave his cock, made me cum over and over. I felt like I was just about hanging on, doing what he wanted, proving again that I was his.

I had lost track of where I was, what my cumming tally was. I didn’t have to worry. I knew he’d get me the fourteen. But today was all consuming, today was wanking for wanking’s sake, today was planned to keep me sexually on the edge for the entire day. And my body had no choice. My brain wasn’t going to make him stop, he wasn’t going to stop.

As my cunt came again, just by his fingers this time, he shot me a loving smile, before ploughing four fingers into my cunt again, vigorous, powerful. I threw my head back and closed my eyes, crying out as he milked my tired and overused cunt. I heard a “Just one more, slut” from his soothing voice, my cunt’s ordeal was nearly over.

He briefly stopped whilst he pulled me onto his lap, his erect cock impaling my already lubed asshole as I sat, his hands reaching round my body to both continue the four finger cunt fuck and grope and paw at my already tender tits.

The filth being spoken into my ear, the aching and throbbing of my tits, my asshole being stretched by his still enormous cock, his four fingers filling my cunt and abusing my clit as they fucked it. It overwhelmed me yet again, and I came, hard, extended, not even allowed to finish that orgasm until his fingers decided. He dragged it out. As I stopped cumming, I came up for air.

It wasn’t just fourteen orgasms, it was almost the entire day of being masturbated, groped, tits manhandled, cock in all three holes (often with neither of us cumming, just for the penetration). I couldn’t settle, couldn’t relax even for a second. I was kept on that sexual high all day, I was kept on a submissive high all day (even in the restaurant, he managed it, not least through the cum trickling out of my cunt all the time I was there, my blouse being slightly more open than I’d ideally have liked and the fact that I had a sizeable, slightly uncomfortable butt plug in). I was even penetrated whilst I prepared the other meals of the day. There was literally no rest.

And my poor nipples were punished early on. Manuscript clips, foldback clips, squashing each nipple, the pain of them being applied, fading to a dull throbbing pain, and then the pain of them being removed and the blood rushing back into them. And all the time I endured that, he was masturbating me, almost trying to wipe away the pain with ecstasy from my cunt. Meticulous. Loving. Endurance.

I lost track of time right throughout the day. I lost track of orgasms after the first couple too. The intensity was like nothing he’s ever done. So completely overwhelming. I felt I was fighting just to remain present in the moment, and sometimes I didn’t succeed. Sometimes I drifted away, only to be brought back by an orgasm.

And once I’d had fourteen, and they were fourteen hard orgasms too, once the time slipped past midnight, he put me to bed, intending me to be alone to recover. I cried. I didn’t want him to leave me. So intense had the day been that I wasn’t emotionally able to be alone.

So instead, he spooned me, gripping on to a tit as he often does. It was familiar. It was comforting. It was what I needed. I finally slept, happy, sated, owned, his.