Prologue
I knew what was coming. What he wanted. I was reluctant to play along, to let him, but it had been some months now since I last relented and I was resigned to the fact that it would be unfair to deny him any longer.
His roaming, stroking hands had infiltrated my nightwear - a silky shorts and vest top combo - rousing me from my sleep. He had been stroking my back and my buttocks for over 15 minutes now, progressively delving deeper between my legs, fingers seeking a more prized target; or wandering from my back, to my flank, and then around under, or on the side of my breast.
It was the same routine every time he wanted me. It was how he always let me know he could just not abstain any more, that he needed a release. I suppose I didn't have to comply. There have been many times I haven't, but that was when his urges were much more frequent, and his expectations higher. Now he knew from many frank discussions not to try as often, to avoid frustration and rejection. When he did attempt to have me now, it felt wrong to spurn him, even though my heart wasn't in it.
In a few more minutes his fingers would locate my labia, squashed between my thighs as I lay on my side; my back to him as always. And then the same ritual would begin, tainted by the same outcome and same disappointment.
After one, then two, of his fingers had slipped inside me and turned my dry vagina in to a slightly lubricated vessel, his hand sought out the front entrance. I turned a little towards him, fully aware of what happens next. It's a process. As robotic as a production line and as erotic as one to.
To be fair, this bit is rewarding. He is good with his fingers (and mouth, but these days it is rarely used on me, including the intimacy of kissing me) and he always brings me to orgasm eventually. Without the intimacy it takes longer. The lack of passion from his redundant lips, and the mechanical nature of the routine means my fire is lit slowly, like rubbing sticks together instead of being ignited by an already burning flame. But I do cum. That moment of ejaculation is the only highlight and pleasure I take from our copulation; but even the knowledge of this is not enough for me to let him take me more often, to experience the rush it gives me. If needs be I can get there by myself.
I can't decide if he always makes me orgasm with his fingers first (and on very rare occasions his lips, and tongue) as some kind of unselfish act. You know where he thinks he is making sure my needs are met by at least giving me that release; as he knows what follows will never satisfy me. Or if he does it because he knows it's the only thing he is good at, like he is bolstering himself for the low self esteem he will bear after sex.
After the spasms subside from my orgasm, my shorts are pulled from my legs and I am turned back over on my side facing away from him. At this point sometimes he is already hard, sometimes he is not, and he has to tug on his cock, semi-masturbating himself to an erection. I won't do it. I won't touch it with hand or mouth.
This time he is hard, and he lines up, then enters me in the spoons position. As ever.
This is where it usually goes wrong, one way or another. He either can't maintain an erection and his cock shrivels inside me to nothing, before slipping out like a leech; or he maintains his erection but comes after a minute at most, emptying thick dollops of spunk in my pussy. Both are always followed by wails of frustration and apologies; self loathing about his lack of abilities. He can never hope to make me orgasm during intercourse.
The former usually leads to something else entirely at first, though once he is erect again and able to continue it still ends in relatively premature ejaculation. To get himself hard again, he plays with himself fantasising about me being fucked by another guy. Since he confessed this fantasy, and more, he does not hide what he is thinking about whilst trying to rekindle his erection; I can hear him whispering and mumbling under his breath about some random guy taking me with a big cock, and me loving it.
This time it was the latter. I reckon 30-40 seconds of rapid thrusting before he emptied his seed inside me, then he sloped off to the en-suite mumbling an apology and cursing under his breath. I try and reassure him it was fine, though we both know this is a lie. The final act is him returning with toilet tissue for me to clean his cum from my cunt, then handing me back my shorts, before settling down to sleep as he hugs me.
I know he blames me for either scenario. He says that the lack of sex means he gets so worked up and frustrated; that he gets too excited and can't last when I finally give in to him. When he does not go flaccid he says its purely the thrill of fucking me after so long that brings him to ejaculate so quickly, when he does go soft and has to masturbate himself hard again, he says that he has the fear of going soft again so he goes quick, and of course, this isn't helped by the images lingering in his head of me being pleasured by other men. Catch 22.
Secretly I disagree. We have been married a long time now, and the fucking part was never great. Oh sure when we were younger it did last a little longer, and he didn't go soft at all, and we made up for it with quantity instead of quality, but it was always average. As time drifted by, complacency and contentment replaced desire and passion, and I have not felt satisfied for an awful long time.
I paint a poor picture of us don't I? But I do love him. I'm just not in love with him. The spark has died from an attraction point of view. He is handsome enough but has developed a large beer belly which turns me off him. Him being overweight also affects his limited ability in bed, as he cannot physically perform many positions. Other than spoons, doggy style was the only alternative, but even that alternative lapsed some time ago.
We have reached that stage where we are going through the motions, doing what most couples do outwardly, supporting each other, loving each other (in a companionship kind of way), respecting each other, getting on with the normal humdrum of life, but from my perspective I am barren sexually. It is a chore I fulfil from a sense of obligation and duty, and not something I desire from him, as other than the orgasm from his fingering, I feel nothing inside when he enters me, or touches me.
We have talked. He knows more or less how I feel. I told him at first I could live without sex (which isn't really true, what I meant was I could live without sex...with him), I think he sensed this, as it spurred him on to suggest something that took me aback.
He said he loved me so much that if he no longer "did it" for me, if I no longer found him attractive, that I could meet other men for sex. Oh, he also added that he would like to watch too, if he could, and he would still like to have sex with me occasionally, as he didn't think he could live without sex. He didn't want to cheat on me, as he loved me he said. I suspect however, that the truth is he knows he would not have the confidence to cheat on me, because he could not perform. He would have no confidence in himself to seek out another woman. Am I being too harsh on him with this thought? Who knows. It's what I think.
I was shocked at this offer and flatly turned it down. Though I have to confess deep down in my loins, a little tremor, a small spark of excitement flared when I imagined another man lay between my legs, filling my cunt with his meat...leaving me utterly breathless. The spark was extinguished almost immediately however, because of the ridiculousness of my husbands suggestion. Or so I thought then. I remember thinking "Who does that? Sleeps with other guys, but remains married to her hubby even though he knows...that just can't be a thing...can it?"
