Commitment by KM Golland


Thirteen years. That’s how long Dean and I have been married. Thirteen years of ups, downs, forwards, backwards, whirlywhirls and somersaults. Whatever the obstacle we’d faced during that time, we’d nailed it. And not just nailed it; we’d MacGyvered the arse out of it.

Our matrimonial knot was tied in front of friends and family in a large Catholic church before God on a scorchin’ hot December afternoon. Skin was tacky. Napes were damp. And underneath my dress I could have baked a cake in the makeshift oven between my legs that would’ve put Betty Crocker to shame. But despite the awful heatwave we’d experienced that day, I’d still rocked my white halter-neck taffeta wedding dress like nobody’s business. Yep, Natasha Jones — that’s me — had been the most beautiful human meringue to have ever lived.

The perfect bride at the perfect wedding to the perfect man.

Smiling as I drove my car into the driveway of our house, I thought back to that day and to just how far Dean and I had come. Like most couples, we’d started out by working our arses off to save for a deposit on a home, soon after becoming proud owners of a gigantic mortgage. We’d parented a cat and then a dog — our safe and happy furry test subjects successfully proving that we could try parenting a real baby human. Enter said baby human number one, William, who was born two years after we married, followed by baby human number two, Thomas, three years later.

My boys.

I loved them.

But they near destroyed my vagina.

How the tunnel of Tash still operated after pushing out those beasts was beyond me, and yet somehow it did. In fact, it was scheduled to operate later tonight. That’s right … bring on anni­versary sexytimes. Bring on a candlelit dinner, a full body massage, a hot steamy bubble bath, schnappies and a fuckalicious fuckfest with my man. Bring on the rarity that is a child-free evening. Bliss.

Grinning devilishly, I got out of my car and skipped to my front door, waving at my neighbour before pausing and pulling out my phone to check my hair and makeup on the selfie-cam. I’d per­formed a rear-view mirror beauty touch-up at the traffic lights and had even sprayed some deodorant on my armpits for added effect. And just because it was our anniversary, I’d de-fuzzed myself the night before.

All of myself.

Yes … Tashy’s clam was no longer bearded.

Since giving birth, my window of horniness had shrunk from a floor-to-ceiling panel to a porthole on a tugboat … a toy tugboat. I’d gone from yee-haw to yee-naw and, quite frankly, I normally couldn’t be bothered. Sex was boring. A chore. And I hated chores. It also involved getting naked — something else I hated.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband was hot, and I loved him. In the years we’d been together, he’d barely changed, physically, whereas I had. My boobs had become droobs. My arse resembled a tail. I had flabdominals and bat-wing arms, and the bags under my eyes could hold a week’s worth of shopping. Everything I possessed was loose and tired, but that was motherhood.

Despite loving and being attracted to Dean, and despite my teeny tugboat porthole of horniness, I just wasn’t all that interested in meaningless do-it-for-the-hell-of-it sex anymore. There was noth­ing remotely exciting about it. Nothing spontaneous. And at the end of a long exhausting day, the last thing I wanted was a whole five minutes of belly flab flabbing while having to act out an orgasm worthy of an Academy Award.

Except for tonight!

Tonight was different.

I’d planned on digging out my sexy nightie, one that hid the bits I wanted kept hidden. I’d also picked up some wine and donuts, and we had Love Actually on DVD. It was perfect. Romantic. And did I mention there were no kids?

Pulling a duckface at my phone and running my tongue across the top row of my teeth, I nodded in approval before turning the key to my front door, stepping inside our entrance hall and nearly having a fucking heart attack.


‘Shiiiiit! What the f … fig tree is going on?’ I screamed, clutch­ing my chest and staring wide-eyed at my sons, both William and Thomas in battle stance and pointing sword-shaped balloons at me. Yes, balloons, as in air-filled latex objects from hell.

‘Prepare to die, mother,’ William declared, stepping forward.

The balloon neared.

I backed up.

‘Yes, prepare to die a horrible death, evil wench.’

‘Thomas!’ I scowled at my youngest spawn. ‘Don’t call me that.’ What the hell is going on? Where are my candles, rose petals and smooth sounds of Lionel Ritchie filtering from the stereo? Where is Dean?

Thomas put his hand to his mouth and whispered, ‘Just go with it, Mum. I’m acting.’

‘But … but …’ I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘But why?’

He stepped forward again, this time pointing the sword-balloon directly at my chest. ‘Do not speak, or I shall slit your throat.’

The balloon made a hellish screeching noise as it molested my skin, causing my heart rate to elevate and an ear-piercing squeal to leave my mouth. I hated balloons. Despised them.

I was a proud globophobe.


‘Get that thing away from me!’ I screamed, swatting it and then making a dash for my bedroom.

As I ran past the kitchen, two insane children hot on my tail, Dean sprung out from behind a wall, causing my bladder to lose some of its contents. Jesus Christ, for the love of Depend!

I wasn’t sure whether to clutch my chest or vagina, so instead focussed on my husband who was dressed in a white shirt and grey tights, his outstretched arm wielding one of the boys’ non-balloon toy swords.

‘Halt, you heathens,’ he announced dramatically, chest puffed, his arm guiding me to stand behind him. ‘How dare ye cause m’lady such distress?’

The boys both stopped suddenly and stared dumbfounded at their father, taking in his attire and unusual choice of words.

‘What’s a heeven?’ Thomas whispered to William.

‘I don’t know. I think it’s Robin Hood speak for bad guy.’

Thomas scrunched his nose and nodded. ‘Oh. Dad’s weird.’

‘You are no match for us, girly man,’ William declared, aiming his balloon at Dean.

Girly man? I couldn’t help but giggle. The whole scenario was crazy.

Dean widened his stance and held out his arms defensively. ‘Hey! There’s nothing girly ’bout what I’m packing.’

My gaze dropped to what he was ‘packing’, which was beauti­fully accentuated in tight cotton Lycra. Pronounced. Snug. Con­fronting. The sight had me clamping my teeth around my lip and, as unusual as it was, I wanted that package. I wanted it between my legs, rubbed across my face … I just plain wanted it.

Staring at his bulge, it occurred to me that it would remain out of reach, because children murder sexytimes. This always happens.

My heart sank.

There was never any time for Tash and Dean, Dean and Tash. It was always us and the boys, or work, or … life. No sexytimes. No tunnel of Tash exploration.

That was marriage.

Raising my eyes to meet my husband’s sweet face, I put on a smile for what he’d orchestrated. Sure, it wasn’t what I’d had in mind, wasn’t what I’d hoped for. But this was Dean. He was my goofy man, my entertaining, caring, safe and secure man.

He was my normal.

Chapter One


So far, anniversary number eleven … or was it twelve? Shit, I wasn’t sure, but whichever it was, it was a success. Dinner went well. I’d managed to cook the steak to perfection and had even steamed some green vegetables because Tash liked miniature-tree-looking food. I didn’t. The green stuff gave me wind, which normally pissed her off. And a pissed-off Tash was the last thing I wanted tonight. But so far so good, as she’d been happily occupied with my culinary magnificence and not said a word during the entire meal.

I smiled smugly to myself. In all honesty, I knew she’d like the meal. She always liked it when I cooked. Apart from the ‘we need to eat more vegetables’ nagging, she never complained. I also knew she’d like my save-the-damsel-in-distress-from-the-killer-balloon-swords act.

She was terrified of the things.

It was a no-brainer.

It was also a sure thing that there would be sex when we hit the bedroom later on. How could it not be? I’d rescued her and pro­duced a feast.

‘Stop the CAT!’ Thomas yelled in his sleep, his body half draped over Tash’s lap.

It startled her, and she flapped her hands like a bird, nearly buck­ing him off. ‘For the love of f … frisbees.’ Tash adjusted her position on the sofa next to me, the leather upholstery creaking beneath her. ‘I wish he’d grow out of this sleep-shout shit. The kid is gonna give me a heart attack one day.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. Firstly, her new thing of replacing the f-bomb with other f-words — her best friend Alexis’s suggestion — was stupid but funny. And secondly, I was fairly sure Thomas’s out­bursts were genetic; I’d been a sleep-shouter as a kid, too.

She glared at me. ‘It’s not funny. I think I peed a little.’

Holding up my hands in mock defence, I looked down at my sleeping son, gently lowering my hand to touch his face. ‘I wonder what the cat was doing?’

‘We don’t even own a cat anymore.’

Tash shuffled again and pushed my arm from its draped position over her shoulder. She looked uncomfortable.

‘Here.’ I stood up and levered Tommy’s little seven-year-old body into my arms. ‘I’ll put him to bed.’

‘Bring back the dead bird,’ he mumbled.

Tash shook her head and stretched, yawning. ‘Well, now you know what the cat was doing.’

I chuckled, but the way she pushed out her perfect tits when she arched her back had my cock stirring to life. My wife had the most beautiful set in the world — bigger than handfuls, smaller than bagfuls.

‘I might go to bed as well,’ she said, dropping her hands to her lap. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘It’s only ten-thirty, babe. The night is still young.’ I waggled my eyebrows at her.

‘Yeah, but I’m not.’

My waggling stopped and I frowned. I wanted to make love to my wife. It was our anniversary, for fuck’s sake. Anniversaries, birthdays and Valentine’s Day were guaranteed sex days. I looked forward to those three days in the year just as much as I looked forward to the AFL Grand Final and the Bathurst 1000.

Crouching down and nearly hitting poor Tommy’s head on the lamp beside the sofa, I whispered, ‘You sure you don’t want me to look for your cat, love?’

‘The cat’s dead,’ Thomas mumbled. ‘Dead.’

Tash kissed his golden hair. ‘What he said.’ She then stood and made her way to our bedroom. That’s it? Her cat’s dead? I thought the fuckers had nine lives.

Slumping my shoulders as I watched her leave the room, I turned my attention to William, who was sitting on a beanbag in front of the TV, oblivious to his surroundings as per usual. ‘Come on, Will, bedtime.’

His head snapped in my direction. ‘What? Now? But, Daaaaad …’

‘No buts,’ I answered, glaring at him, my tone a little grumpier than I meant it to be.

He grumbled and slowly stood, kicking the bag into the corner of the living room. ‘Sleep is for pussies.’ Don’t talk to me about puss­ies, young man.

‘Go pick that up and put it back properly,’ I said sternly. ‘And sleep is necessary.’

He trudged over to the beanbag and positioned it where it was supposed to be. ‘But it’s still early.’

‘Goodnight, William. And thanks for scaring your mum with the balloons tonight.’

‘Sure,’ he murmured, moping as he went to bed.

Feeling as dejected as my son looked, I carried Thomas to his room and tucked him into bed, accidentally letting one go as I bent over — an escapee. ‘Shit. Sorry, matey,’ I whispered, swishing the air around my arse. ‘Lucky you can’t smell when you’re asleep.’

I stood up and retreated to the door, recalling the knickers I’d bought Tash to wear this evening. They were the ruffly ones she liked and was always dancing around the house in. I wouldn’t exactly call them sexy knickers, but when she wore them and jiggled her arse, my cock definitely liked it. Something told me I wasn’t going to see her in them tonight, though, which meant my hand was gonna be dealin’ cards in the shower once again. And to top that off, I’d had a shit day at work. Fuck.

I groaned. I didn’t feel like jerking off in the shower. All I wanted was to be buried inside my wife. To relieve the stress I dealt with daily for being an accountant at a firm full of arse-kissers. All I wanted was Tash and how good she made me feel: as if I mat­tered, as if I were worthy. And I was worthy. I was a great father and husband. I worked hard and provided funds to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. I put the toilet seat down, washed the toothpaste from the sink, and I always gave her the last Clinker in the packet. So did I deserve anniversary sex? Yeah, I fucking well did.

Feeling a renewed sense of hope, I left Thomas’s room, leaving the door slightly ajar so as not to entomb him with the escapee. Right, little Tommy, sweet dreams. I’m going to give CPR to Mummy’s pussy.


‘Mmm … yeah,’ Tash moaned.

‘Yeah?’ I moaned in return and slid my cock back inside her.

‘Mmhm.’ She nodded, her eyes closed, her hands gently gripping my arms. She looked completely relaxed.

I smiled. My rhythm was good, continuous, and that sometimes relaxed her a little too much and she would nearly drift off to sleep, which was cute but not what I wanted during sex.

‘Wakey wakey, love. I know I have a masterful dick …’ I grunted, pressing deep. ‘A dick that can massage you to sleep …’ I grunted again, drawing back and thrusting into her to jolt her eyes open. ‘But you need to be awake when you come.’

‘I’m awake,’ she mumbled groggily, her body loosely bouncing with my drive.

I shook my head and thrust harder, groaning when I released an entire month of tension into her. ‘Yesssss,’ I bellowed, slumping on top of her.

Tash was the perfect pillow. Soft. Warm. Comfortable. I loved how smooth her skin felt beneath my chin and how, when I nuzzled my nose into the crook of her neck, she smelled of flowers and laun­dry detergent; how she smelled of home.

My home.

Breathing her in, I held her scent and then exhaled, sated but exhausted. I was fucking spent both mentally and physically, and my body ached from holding myself above her while we’d made love. It was hard work on the old biceps; they weren’t like they used to be. I really should start lifting weights again.

Maybe tomorrow.

‘Dean,’ Tash slurred, patting my back.

She did this every now and again. It was weird, but I never said anything because I was fairly sure it was her way of applauding my efforts. It was also soothing and it made me sleepy.




‘WHAT?’ I exclaimed, springing up onto my hands.

‘You fell asleep on me.’

My eyes found her squinty glaring ones. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Unless you’ve recently learned to speak pig and snort in a rhyth­mic manner, then yes, I’m sure.’

She shuffled beneath me and rolled onto her side, so I nestled in behind her and wrapped my arms around her body, settling my hands on her perfect tits. ‘Happy anniversary,’ I whispered against her neck, smiling because we’d had a great night.

She shuffled once again and loosened my grip a little. I laughed to myself. She hated being hot in bed and apparently my hugging ‘roasted’ her. ‘Yeah, happy anniversary, babe. Thanks for dinner.’

‘Any time, sweetness. Any time.’

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