I'm less of a man than I was ten minutes ago.
Pulling the covers over my face, I've closed my eyes from the world and adopted the foetal position - faced away from the source of my problems.
There's no escaping it though, as her Irish accented stern words emanate from the ensuite bathroom.
"There's something wrong with you and you need to get it sorted. It's not right."
I can't fight back. She's correct, and she's not the problem. Neither is this feeling of emasculation. They're symptoms of a wider malaise maybe stemming from a root problem - that being my failure to admit to my wants and needs.
Lifting my head and peering over the covers I see the back of her naked body ahead of me as she dries herself in front of the bathroom mirror.
The reflection meets my eyes to reinforce the rebukes.
"I asked you ages ago to tell me what you liked and you gave me nothing".
Despite my anguish, I can't help but muse how sexy she appears, nakedly scolding me.
Striding out of the bathroom and back to the bedside via our bedroom's chest of drawers with garments in tow, her stern gaze doesn't falter.
"Maybe I should start looking around for someone else if we're on a downward spiral," is her stinging semi-casual remark while pulling on knickers.
I offer no acknowledgement, and so each piece of lingerie she puts on is free to be accompanied by a further rebuke.
"You used to be right up for it when we first got together" - as the matching black bra is fastened -
"now we're just like brother and sister."
Sitting down at the foot of the bed to put on her nylons, a piece of rolled up fabric is eased and stretched up each limb to the tune of more of my inadequacies.
Then as she stands and pulls the material up over her bum, the mental beating is completed with a disdainful glance behind her back at me.
Perversely, there's a twitching within my groin at such a sight. Yes, perversely, as while I haven't been able to get it up lately, the mere sight of her semi naked while issuing such cruel barbs is enough to turn me on.
And therein lies the problem.
As I contemplate this, she sits down on the bed with a sigh. It's enough to pull me out of my own low thoughts and feel sorry for her. None of this is her fault.
I'm overcome with the urge to comfort her, but I'm also eager to explore the potential for a cheap thrill. A thrill which I feel I have to get by stealth means.
Decision made, I quickly crawl out of the covers and sliver over to where she's perched on the end of the bed, throwing my arms around her waist with a, "I'm so sorry."
I get my face as close to her arse as I can. "You know I love you and want you so bad. I really don't know why this is happening."
There's a softening in her, as after a pause, she twists slightly to look down at me sympathetically.
Then putting a hand though my hair, she lightens the mood further with, "I'm sorry James, I guess it's hard for you too," adding, "if you pardon the pun!"
Shuffling round to address me properly - "Look James, from a professional point of view I think the very least you can do is get yourself checked out at the docs."
"When I was doing cardiac nursing they always said that erectile dysfunction is the window to the heart. I've seen men in their thirties not much older than yourself requiring bypass grafts never mind angioplasties."
"Then there's the prostate issues too. I've seen a lot of that since I've been working on urology recently and you've never had yours checked."
"But I'm only thirty three!" I object.
"Yes," she allows, "but they routinely do them in America earlier than us and who's to say they're incorrect".
"I think the least you owe me is to get yourself checked out" - adding in a firmer tone - "and I expect it to be done when I come back tonight."
Well 'tonight' came, quickly, and against my better judgement I haven't gone to the doctors. My rationale is that its psychosomatic and I need sexual counselling or something.
Unfortunately, I feel unable to say that to Sinead and all she knows when she returns from a long hard nursing shift is that I haven't done as she commanded, despite the implications.
It all starts off innocuously - the greetings and asking how her day has been as she walks in.
Her reply is favourable as she hangs a long heavy coat on a hook in the hallway, revealing her nursing uniform.
Sinead has never taken to the scrubs that have become popular in the UK over recent years, instead preferring the traditional dress, albeit in a contemporary style.
"Doesn't your hospital forbid you from wearing your uniform to and from work?" I ask.
"Yes, but I wanted to get home quick and nobody would know the difference under my winter clothes."
I knew the difference alright. I'm noting with interest that she's wearing calf length black leather boots over the dark nylon tights she'd put on earlier before she left for work. The tights - work protocol, the boots - for the commute in the frigid English weather. It's an interesting look - not displeasing.
"So how'd you go at the doctors with your tests and all?" she asks.
"Umm, I didn't."
"What the fuck Jim! Didn't you see how pissed off I was this morning?"
"Yes," I plead, "I just -"
"Just didn't bloody do it did you!"
Her decisive - "Into the bedroom now!" - command bewilders me, especially when she veers off into the ensuite to rummage in the cupboards.
Following, I see her pluck our well stocked first aid box (Sinead's ill gotten vocational gains) out of the cupboard, removing from it what look like hospital grade gloves and a small packet of something.
"If you won't get yourself checked out for the benefit of both us then I'll have to do it for you," she says resolutely, snapping on a blue latex glove.
"Now, get on the bed lying on your side, facing me with your legs pulled up towards your chest. Oh, and you need to strip off too."
"You're doing a prostate check?" is my exasperated cry in reply, the emphasis being on the 'you're'. I mean, she's a nurse not a doctor!
I wonder too about the requirement to be fully naked, but I find myself complying - grudgingly dropping my clothes on the floor before duly assuming the position - on my side with legs tucked into my chest.
The small packet turns out thankfully to be lube, a liberal amount of which she smears on her gloved index finger.
I'm not quite hyperventilating as she approaches, but my breath admittedly quickens as my apprehension increases.
Not being able to see what's going on back there doesn't help my anxiety. My immediate point of view now is of Sinead's crotch and legs as she positions herself to do the deed.
Adjusting her position to get herself closer, she hitches up her dress somewhat in order to get her left knee on the bed in front of my torso.
My breath quickens even further as I feel a hand prising apart my cheeks!
A sharp intake of breath ensues as I feel cold wet prodding around my anus - the lubed finger probing for an entry.
"Relax love," she gently encourages, while restraining me with a hand now on my hip. It's a soothing, almost sexy voice though.
Aided by the lube and my attempt at relaxing, her long thin finger penetrates me easier than I expect, though encounters ongoing futile resistance from my sphincter's involuntary clenching as it progresses.
The visceral nature of my asshole's physiological response to this intrusion oddly makes me even more self-conscious than the act of being penetrated.
Not that it's usual to have your loved one check your prostate of course, but I don't suppose you're meant to feel stripped of your dignity during this procedure under its normal circumstances.
This certainly hasn't been a professionally executed medical procedure by a qualified doctor that's for sure. What with the added sensation of her finger now seemingly thrusting itself in and out, I almost feel as if I'm being experimented on. Isn't she supposed to be checking my prostate?
And now it almost feels like I'm being stretched wider at the entrance, causing a discernible stinging. Could there be more than one finger in there!
Refusing to believe in what I'm feeling, and somewhat traumatised, I zone out momentarily from the act being done to me, becoming fixated on her knee pressing firmly into the bed down near my crotch.
Focusing on the finely weaved pattern that makes up her sheer black tights, I note It's stretched tighter around her knee bearing down into the mattress, making it appear lighter in colour than the less strained material elsewhere on her limb.
She's got great legs - encasing them in nylon just perfects them.
The calf length boots compliment the look too. I marvel at the supple yet strong material's changing shine and evolving creases around her ankle as her foot sways.
The association of leather and leather boots with sexually dominant women is definitely a strong one with me, and as such I acknowledge there's another emotional feeling at play here.
The cold dispassionate finger fucking of my ass - the restraining with her hand - and now that I mention it, the acute awareness of her knee physically making contact with my unfettered crotch make the disconcerting feeling give way to to one of arousal.
I swear I can almost feel the soft kiss of the nylon against my genitals prior to the brutal force of her knee bone pressing against them as she leans further in.
In adjusting her position slightly, the knee moves off, and I realise my cock has become hard. So hard in fact that it springs to attention.
But has it caught her attention? I tense up again as a wave of embarrassment washes over me.
I'm jolted with, "So do you like me playing with your ass?"
I'm paralysed - no response forthcoming.
"Don't worry, I'm not accusing you of being gay or anything. What I mean is you have a thing for asses, as in women's and your own."
"I read about it in some women's magazine. How to tell if your man is ass-centric. Yes, that was the term, and that's what you are. You're ass-centric James."
Elaborating further - "No, you've never really been a boob man as such. Always fondling me down there. In fact, the only time you've been able to get it halfway up recently is when you've been behind me and getting a good look at my ass."
