The following day

"Hello honey buiscuit, do you missed me?", Mathias asks, sitting heavily on our bed. He takes off his shoes and then the socks. I deserve just a quick look at his feet; they are old and hairy and don't tell me anything. My husband starts to disrobe, revealing a pink skin assorted with tufts of hair. I remain indifferent; there is no longer any part of his body that is giving me emotions. He was the same to me whether he was dressed or undressed.My body still drips after the shower, and I am drying inside a white, classy bathrobe that he had gifted me the last year. "No, of course I didn't miss you...", I mocked him. It was just relatively true. In fact, he is a reassuring presence in my life, regardless of our sexual problems. He smiles and approaches me half naked. We were tall the same. "One day or another I will educate you to respond properly...I am the man of the house, remember pussy?", he says, looking forward to my reaction. I shake my head, amused as always by that provocation. I taste that lingering moment before the storm, and then I strike. My open palm sinks into his upper belly, forcing him to step back and taking the man off guard. It is incredible, I think, that after all these years he's stll so slow and unprepared. This time I want to try something different to put into practice my vovinam training, so I lay one hand on the bed , jumping my legs up to snatch them around his torso and thrust him back. The move is bold but successful, and my husband is plunged onto his back with his tommy tightened in a scrissor. "Oh! And who says that vovinam is useless?", I remark, almost surprised by myself. "Well, not me...", my husband replies.

For a moment, the spell is broken. Yes, it wasn't him and I hate my man for that. Without an answer, I close the grip of my thighs viciously, squeezing out his soft belly as much as I can. "Do you give, pig?", I demand with a smirk. But he fights back, puffing and moaning as he tries to endure the pain and break free. I love it when he tries to resist, because it entails a stronger reaction. Watching his attempts to pry my legs apart I change my tactics, opening my tighs and clenching my right hand over his chin while I move on top of him. His hands desperately push my arms away from the pin, but he can't keep me back an inch. After a brief struggle, I am comfortably seated on his chest. He stares at me with a look of pure admiration. I know that I am still a beautiful woman, and watching my breasts through the bathrobe, now half open, must be a wonderful sight for him. I smile and rise, trampling his left arm under my sole. His other arm is seized by my solid feminine hand. I still have one hand free and I use it to grab his jaw. "Now, what should I do? Slapping or chocking?", I ask, hoping to sound sexy and intimidating. He grumbles something unintelligible. I'm getting wet. My patience is over. I can't resist the call of my body for another minute. I move closer to his face, rubbing my pussy against his nose and masturbating on his face. That was the real me. Beautiful and dominant, not weak and scared. That was the real me, a feminine power of nature. There was no man or boy able to intimidate me. I would have taken my revenge, I promise, reaching the peak of pleasure over my man's mouth. I would have humiliated and enslaved that tall kid.