I told him.

Once the haze of rage lifted from my eyes, and I cooled off enough, I remembered that he is A) not a mind-reader. And B) is upfront and honest. And he responds well when I am upfront and honest. So just telling him that, straight up, using plain and simple words, will get it through his head.

And more importantly, it's our 1-year anniversary, and I don't want it to end like this.

So, after changing my under-layer in the spare bathroom, I found him already setting up the couch with his pillow and the spare blanket. He saw me, and opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off and told him to bring his pillow back into the bedroom, and that I needed to tell him something. And he looked more terrified than when he proposed. (I'm not going to lie, it was kind of adorable to watch him squirm).

Sitting him down the bed, I sat down next to him, put my hand on his knee, and told him what I said I would. That I love him, and appreciate everything he did over the week, and understand what it was all in service for. That I recognized the effort that he put in, but that his gift was unacceptable. However, it was his anniversary too, and that because doing this for him would make him happy, I would indulge him his fantasy, and that it would probably be the only time I would put this thing on for him. (Turns out it wasn't, but I meant it at the time) As long of course, as he apologized.

The sigh that came out of that man, was so long and so deep, that I thought he was going to deflate onto the bed. Putting his hand on mine, he picked his head up and told me that he understood my concerns, was genuinely sorry for being selfish and not considering my feelings, and that he probably should have talked it over with me first when the idea popped into his head. Apparently, he thought that he could try and make my school insult into something I could be proud of, by giving me power over it. I gave him the (what is now known as) "Mommy's I can't believe what I'm hearing" scowl, before shaking my head and kissing his cheek. It was the thought that counted.

Despite how convoluted that thought process was.

A few minutes later though, his expression was pure sexual bliss mixed with intense focus, murmuring under his breath about how he has the best, sexiest, and most generous wife in the world. His hands were pawing and mauling at my boobs over the cowkini top, while his hips tried to match my pace, as he was living out his dream of being ridden cowgirl by his favorite cow-girl. And I gotta tell you, being on top, and having the extra weight on the downstroke, getting his cock that little bit deeper inside, combined with the sharp explosive power of a (slight) hatefuck, while your husband is shaking and trembling inside you, his pre-cum leaking out the tip, barely able to control his excitement?

So good.

I didn't cum that night but, and I have no concrete evidence of this, I firmly believe that he must have fallen even more in love with me after that. Because he called in sick the next day, purely to be at my beck and call. All my chores, done. Picked me up from work to take me to lunch. Greeted me at the door with my robe and slippers, with the next episode of my show ready to go, snacks and tea on the coffee table, and dinner already in the oven. He also made sure that I came my brains out that night too.

All because, even though I hated it, I entertained his sick, twisted, perverted mind.

That's really the only reason I keep that cowkini in the drawer. It's how I show him that I love him. Because over the years, he's tried and found many, many little and big things he can do for me, despite how much I annoy him, just to remind me that he still loves me too.