A husband becomes disenchanted with his pretty wife

“DON”T leave the kitchen sink in such a mess like
that!”

“What mess? Its just a few leftover soap suds.”

“It drives me nuts.”

Well, she drives me nuts, too.

Once again, I couldn’t get anything right. Why can’t
she just chill out, lighten up, stay cool, or whatever
slang the youth of today would use to describe it?

It was obvious to anyone who cared to listen to us
that my wife and I did not get on very well anymore.
In fact for some time it seemed we had been drifting
further and further apart.

We could put it down to any number of things. The
pressures of modern life. Our competitive work
environments. We were city-dwelling
thirtysomethings, both at the height of professional
careers that took a lot out of us. We routinely needed
a whole weekend to “veg out” and recuperate from
each working week.

And sex? Forget it! In times of stress my own libido
increases, but hers fades away to nothing. She only
feels horny when everything is perfect and in its place,
and all is right with the world. Nowadays these
conditions seldom apply to our situation. Take the
soap suds, f’rinstance.

I can’t blame her, it is just the way she is. A Catholic
upbringing combined with an over-developed work
ethic. She must love me if she kept me hanging
around, unless it was just out of force of habit. I
mean, I don’t know for sure because she seldom says
so out loud these days. But I couldn’t imagine myself
living with anyone else but her. She is one of the
smartest people I know. On an intellectual level, we
have always clicked.

In fact, that was how I beat off the competition and
won her over in the first place. Although short (five
foot two), not large in front (32B) and not
conventionally pretty, she oozes a certain spunkiness
and there have always been guys interested in her. In
high school she was dating the captain of a sports
team, while I was a nobody. But at University I came
into my own. Her sports jock had to leave town for a
year and in that time I was somehow able to fascinate
her.

When he came back, things got a little tense. I was
away for a month myself at that time, and he came
calling for her. Afterward she confessed to me that
while I was absent she had been in a dilemma. She
had gone out with him a few times “for old times
sake”, and there had been a certain amount of kissing
while in his car. Well, that was her story anyway, and
what could I do but take her word for it?

Funnily enough, I felt no anger at her two-timing like
that. I was strangely fascinated by the thought of her
getting passionate with another while supposedly
being in love with me. She is normally sensible and
with good self-control, very conscious that she should
do the “right thing”. I almost wished I could have
been there to see her get so physically worked up over
someone; worked up enough to let down her guard
and misbehave like that. Anyway, she came back to
me and I forgave her completely.

She could never really be described as a sex machine.
I mean, not the stuff of which wild erotic stories are
based, though how good an indication is that of the
average joe? I found her very physically attractive and
would always want to perform all kinds of undignified
acts upon her person. She liked me doing stuff to her,
but was herself quite passive in bed and never that
inspired to explore what kind of things might make
*me* climb the walls in a frenzy. A lazy lover, I
suppose.

She had not been a virgin when we started up with
each other, but had not enjoyed oral and hadn’t yet
had an orgasm. Not by herself, or with anyone else. I
felt quite proud that I was the first one to go down on
her properly, to produce for the first time that
characteristic shortness of breath, clutching at the
sheets, trembling of the hips, and inner cunt
squeezing that indicates she has just gone over the
top. Nothing spectacular, not like anything you might
see in an Ed Powers video, but she was certainly
capable of enjoying herself.

So we had done a bit of exploring of our sexuality
since we first got together, but it had mostly been me
exploring her sexuality, and I found it to be pretty
“straight”. We usually did foreplay until she came, and
ended up with my still-hardening prick getting slipped
into her for a traditional missionary-style finale. She
has never come from having a cock inside her. She
likes to hold my cock in her mouth while we do 69,
and says that doing so seems to make her orgasm
more intense. But she never wanted to get vigorous
enough to make me come in her mouth. She had
already been rooted up the arse by her sports jock,
quite clumsily it seemed, since she did not care to
repeat the experience. My own ambition to someday
try a rear entry has had to remain unfulfilled.

But now, ten or so years down the track, things were
getting worse rather than better. Quality had not
improved, and quantity had dropped to almost zilch.
Our sex life seemed still-born. So much yet to explore.
And with jobs like ours, so little time.

Sex is not the be-all-and-end-all, but I still think it is
pretty important. After having sex, I really feel like I
am ready to mount my foaming charger and rush off
to slay dragons for her. During long periods of sexual
drought, I can’t be bothered very much with her, or
with my work, or with much of anything else really. I
end up feeling most uninspired.

But sex was not the only problem, it was just part of
the bigger problem, that we talked less and less,
would hardly ever hug or kiss or hold hands. I’d
found myself avoiding her so that I wouldn’t get my
head bitten off over stuff like a few soapsuds.

I found all this pretty depressing. It was the first time
in my life I’d ever had to deal with real depression.
You know, what doctors might refer to as “clinical
depression”. Not that I was certain what that means,
but it was like something was eating at me. I felt
angry with her, with myself, I thought I must be some
kind of a loser, I wanted to hurt myself, get the urge
to suddenly drive my car into a power pole, or one day
just walk out with nothing but my passport and credit
card. All pretty cowardly responses, I have to admit.

And it was two-way thing. There must have been fault
with me as well as her. When I am angry or depressed
I get crabby, say things that are sarcastic, let things
she says or does wind me up more than they should.
None of this would have helped me to stay on her
good side.

But why wouldn’t she talk about it? It was like a news
blackout, we had to pretend that this was normal, or
wasn’t happening! It is easier to put up with lack of
physical contact, if the person you are accustomed to
contacting would just say “I’m really sorry, I’m going
through a bad patch, I hope you can bear with me, I
really appreciate it that you are not cheating on me or
running after prostitutes in the meantime, someday
we will get it on again”. But no, there was nothing to
indicate that this was a storm worth weathering.

After a time I would let myself get crabbier and
crabbier, just trying to get a rise out of her, trying to
get some kind of acknowledgment that we had a
problem here. But neither of us dared to say anything
out loud, maybe fearing that we’d find out there was
really nothing left for us.

Finally, it came to the surface. Out of the blue she
asked me, “Are you going to be around for very much
longer?”

We were in the car when she said it, but I can’t drive
and deal with emotional turmoil all at the same time.
I pulled over.

“Do you want me to go?” I asked.

“I’ve thought about it, and the answer is no, I don’t.”

“Why are we so miserable, though?”

“I dunno. I’m always so tired. There are never enough
hours in the day. Or maybe I don’t have enough
hormones, or something.”

“Why can’t we take time out? Just for each other?”

“You know what my job is like. It’s full on, one slip
and you’re dead.”

“Sometimes I wish I were dead.”

This was hard, I was on the verge of tears and couldn’t
think straight. There seemed to be no way out.

I said “You don’t want to be touched anymore.”

“Yes I do. I miss being hugged.”

“It never seems to suit you when I want to.”

“Well, keep trying, don’t give up.”

So after that I did keep trying but it was like trying to
hug a wooden post. And she didn’t talk about it any
more. I gave up. I no longer expected anything
physical from her. In fact, as the weeks became
months, I did my best to stop thinking of her in a
physical way altogether.

I thought of other people though. Sex became like an
obsession. I would fantasize about anyone, and
anything, except my wife. Fat ladies. Skinny ladies.
Black ones. Asian ones. Ones with big tits. Ones
with small tits but puffy nipples.

I started surfing the net using my computer at work,
going to all manner of XXX sites. This was risky,
since my transmissions were not necessarily private.
It became like an addiction, and ate into my
productivity. It was crazy and I knew it, but I couldn’t
stop. Bill Clinton and I could have had a lot to talk
about. My desk drawer was loaded with disks of
images of fat ladies, midgets, pregnant ladies, bd-sm,
sex between women and dogs, people pissing on each
other, it was weird what I was downloading and
jacking off to. I had retreated into a private
dreamworld.

It reminded me of a book I once read about the Mafia
Boss of Bosses Paul Castellano, who supposedly told
some FBI agents that he started an affair with his
Columbian maid because one morning in bed he
looked down at his wife and came to the realization
that he never ever wanted to make love to her again.

I was now looking at my wife in that same way, and
was wondering what to do next with my life. I
couldn’t bring myself to touch her any more. One of
these days I would either be outta here, or else
swinging from a rope.

She knew things were frostier than ever, and made
one more attempt to get us back on track.

“Lets get away for a bit. Take some time out. Get to
know each other again.”

So as soon as there was a lull in the fighting at our
workplaces, we took off to a tropical resort.

We started off guardedly, but gradually relaxed a bit
more as the truce took hold.

On the first night we had dinner on a candlelit terrace,
a bit of wine (not too much, because it can make her
sick), and started off talking mainly about work but at
least we were talking. And that was another thing
that persuaded her to take me on in the first place;
generally I am a pretty good listener.

A stroll along the sandy beach afterward in the
darkness, holding hands, looking at the stars, feeling
balmy tropical breezes, listening to the faroff bass-
boom of the surf, the nearer bass-boom of the resort
niteclub, and so on and so forth, you get the picture!

I had to admit she looked nice, with a new haircut and
long evening dress that hugged her figure, still pretty
trim after all this time. Any man should be proud to
be in her company.

But I was still awkward about touching her, and was
just holding her hand lightly in mine, not taking
things any further. Even being this close somehow
felt embarrassing.

We made our way back to our room and got ready for
bed.

I showered first, and she went next while I hopped
into bed and read a magazine. When she came out of
the bathroom, she was completely naked, and she
leapt straight in under the covers.

In case you missed the significance of that, she is a
person who ALWAYS sleeps with t-shirt and panties
on. Getting into bed naked is her way of saying that
she is ready for sex.

Problem is, I didn’t know if I was.

She waited expectantly, but I couldn’t yet move a
muscle.

“Come on” she said, “tonight you get lucky!”

Well, thanks a bunch.

She was only partly covered by the sheet, and I could
see her breasts. When she lies on her back they
flatten out to nothing, but she has very big nipples.
Almost the size of grapes, and constricted at their
base which makes them even more berry-like.

There was a time when I would gladly dangle off the
end of one, teasing and tonguing until they were both
hard like bullets.

But not tonight. I just felt empty, devoid of arousal,
incapable of regarding her as a sexual being. In fact,
more than empty, I almost felt disgusted. It was as if I
had kissed my own grandmother, and she had slipped
me some tongue.

“Don’t go to any trouble, I think I’ll pass.”

“WHAT!”

She was giving me a funny look.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You’re serious!”

“Sorry, afraid so.”

She was silent for a while, but looking at me hard.

“Why not?”

“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just not used to
thinking of you in that way anymore.”

“At least try hugging me. Please.”

I compromised and held her hand, but stiffly and
awkwardly. She knew I was holding back, and wasn’t
happy about it.

“Why can’t you hold me?”

Why not indeed. I seemd to have shrunk that part of
my brain away to almost nothing, filling those spaces
instead with all sorts of weird and poisonous rubbish,
various kinks and vices the like of which the internet
seems to have something for everyone. Maybe if I tied
her up, put a bag on her head, and covered her with
jello first? She would never go for it, and quite
frankly, neither would I.

“I could hold you, but my heart would not be in it.
And I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That if I do start to like it again, things will soon be
back to normal and I will have to go through another
six months of learning to go without you again.”

She was starting to get annoyed now.

“So what will it take?”

“I really don’t know, there’s been a lot of damage done.
Maybe we need some kind of a fresh start.”

“You can be a real bastard!”

“I’m not trying to be – honest!”

“Fresh start – I’ll give you a bloody fresh start!”

I half-expected her to try and hit me. She was capable
of it when really furious. Sometimes it was only by
physically hurting me that she could calm down again.

She sat up, keeping herself covered with the sheet.

“So you can’t be loving towards me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You think we need a fresh start?”

“Looks like it.”

She got up and pulled on a pair of panties. Her Long,
clinging dress pulled back on over her head. No bra,
as none was necessary.

“If you want a new start, then come on downstairs and
get it!”

“What?”

“I’m going down to that niteclub. I’ll wait at the bar
for you to come and pick me up. Pretend you never
met me before. Forget who I am, look at me as
someone new. Come and chat me up, or feel me up,
then if it’s not too much trouble, see if maybe you can
fuck my brains out!”

She was opening the door.

“And if you decide that its not worth a try, then don’t
be still here when I come back.”

The door closed, and she was gone.

I lay back and stared into space for a while. It looked
like things had finally come to the crunch. And I
couldn’t blame her for laying down an ultimatum. A
girl has a right to expect that her man will love her to
bits, and if I was incapable of expressing that love
then there was really nothing left for us.

After a while, and in a bit of a daze, I pulled on a shirt
and long trousers, and got ready to go down to this
niteclub. I got there about half an hour after she had
stormed out of the room.

The place was full, it was Saturday night. I didn’t see
her straight away, she was not at the bar like she said
she would be.

Then I spotted her among the dancers, with a dark
and reasonably handsome stranger. I guess I should
have realized that a lone woman of her charms was
not going to be ignored for very long in a place like
this.

I took up a position at the bar and ordered a rum and
coke, then gazed at the dancers.

He was quite good, at least, better than me, and she
has always been good on a dancefloor. She has the
rhythm, and moves without seeming to move, nothing
flashy but very sexy. Even in my currently jaded state,
I had to admit that much. Add to that the fact that
her plain-coloured clinging dress made it very obvious
that she didn’t have a bra on, and I could see why this
chap had made a move on her. I caught him glancing
more than once at her big pointy nipples.

She saw me at the bar, though she didn’t make it
obvious to him. She looked away, then looked back at
me, no doubt wondering why I didn’t go over and try
to cut in.

I was in no hurry. It had been a while since I had seen
her in action, and I was curious to see how she would
handle any attempts by this fellow to get better
acquainted. It was all pretty harmless at the moment,
just your regular disco boogie stuff, which allows
looking but no touching. A slow dance would get
more interesting.

They were finished dancing, heading for a booth at the
back. She sat opposite him and they were deep in
conversation. Just occasionally she glanced my way,
wondering why the heck I didn’t come and extricate
her. But it appeared to me she was getting on just
fine with this guy. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed
at something he said, and she was doing more than
her bit to hold up her end of the conversation.

A slow number, and this time she tugged him to get
up and dance. It started off okay, just a conventional
ballroom-dance hold on to each other, but before long
the hand on her waist had descended to a buttock.
She made no attempt to stop it, though she looked at
me as if to say “You better hurry up.”

But I was fascinated by the sight of this stranger
moving his hand lightly across my wife’s arse. I
wondered what she thought of it? She must be trying
to make me jealous; well, it was working to a certain
extent but I was also finding the spectacle quite erotic.
And for someone who claimed to have hormone
trouble, I wondered how far she would be willing to
go.

That slow dance was followed by another, the DJ no
doubt encouraged by the good turnout of couples who
wanted to rub up against each other. This time our
gentleman friend had both hands on my wife’s bum,
pulling her closer to him. I don’t know if she was
creating any state of arousal in him or not, but if he
sported any kind of erection at all then it was by now
firmly pressed against her stomach. Her hands were
up on his hips, a fairly safe area, but not exactly
fending him off strenuously.

They sat down again, this time closer together in the
booth, and my wife’s body language had changed from
reserved to intimate. Their conversation was again
deep, and I had no idea what they were saying but
they seemed to have much to talk about. His hand
was on hers, while she was looking into his eyes and
glancing at me less and less. Well, if she was trying
to make the point that *someone* out there found her
attractive, she was certainly rubbing it in.

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