'I think I’m over sex now.' - 11/07/2020
I’ve become more and more paranoid that there is something going on. Our sex life has taken a real dive now. We rarely have sex and when we do Sarah is clearly not into it. She just wants it over with as quickly as possible.
She is messaging a lot more than usual.
She is out a lot at odd times. To run, or to walk with a friend. I never see these friends. Sometimes after returning, she is flushed, red faced, and elated. She will schedule a time for a run, or walk, and then change it, and change it again, or even cancel it. When they are cancelled her moods are appalling.
I tell myself that her behavior, mood changes, and lack of interest in sex are due to the stresses and strains of life in lock down. My paranoia says different. It relentlessly pesters me. Its even got me picking her panties out of the wash basket to inspect them for evidence of infidelity. I’ve noticed that she often runs in her sexiest panties. On those occasions the panties always get scurried straight into the wash on her return home.
My paranoia competes with my desire to share her as if I am two different people. Recently she came back from a run and told me a funny story. About how she had got so hot that, as she was running back over some fields, she had taken her top off to cool down.
There she was, in the corner of a field, in her bra and leggings, with no top on, when a family that lives nearby appeared from an adjoining track. Oh how they all laughed. And so did I as she told me the tale. And all the while my paranoia was ranting;
‘What the fuck is this bullshit?... Too hot so she took her top off... It was a slim fit t-shirt for fuck sake!... How much cooler would she be without that on?... She probably got sprung, half dressed, by the neighbors, and now she has to pre-empt them mentioning something to you!… Open your eyes man!’
I ignored my paranoia and I continued to laugh at her story. I commented that the husband probably thought it was a shame that she hadn’t got her bra off as well. She joked that maybe she would do that next time.
Yesterday, when I woke, she was up and dressing for work. She had on a pair of standard plain black panties. She was facing the dresser, her back to me. I quietly watched her put her bra on and pick out a pair of black trousers. Trousers in hand, she turned to face me, and seeing that I was awake, she hesitated.
‘Nah… I’m not the mood for these today.’
She put them away and took out a short summer skirt. After pulling on the skirt she lifted it and pulled off her panties.
‘Nor these...’
She placed them back in the draw and took out a French Maid style thong in black and red. (I bought her the skirt and the thong. So I felt a giddy rush of excitement.) I said nothing because I didn’t want to put her off. Inside I was congratulating myself on a watershed moment in gradually getting her to dress sexier. After all she was dressing for work.
I was so pleased that she went to work dressed that way that I didn’t read any more into it. Not until the early evening, when she arrived home from work late, went straight upstairs, and into the shower. She’s never showered straight after work before.
I stuck my head around the bathroom door to welcome her home and to tell her that the dinner was ready. I noticed the french maid thong, on the bathroom floor, in a pile with her clothes. My paranoia came rushing. Urging me:
‘Pick them up! Look at the crotch. What did she go to work dressed like that for? Why has she come home and got straight into the shower? You fool! You have to get your hands on those panties! Check them for staining.’
But obviously I couldn’t. Not with her right there, standing in the shower, with just the glass screen between us. I decided that I would take a look at them later, in the wash basket. Transfixed by the panties, I wondered how I have become so distrustful of her that I’m desperate to inspect her panties as soon as she walks through the door?
‘I don’t need an audience! Fuck off!’ She’d commanded from behind the glass shower screen, snapping me out of my trance.
I quietly went back downstairs, to the kitchen, where I dished out the dinner. A little time later she appeared with a load of white and light colored washing in her arms. She put it into the washing machine and set a wash going.
‘Dinner’s ready. It’s on the table.’ I told her.
‘Yeah ok! I just want to get this wash on. Pour me a glass of wine, I’ll be right there.’
As I went to the cupboard, for a wine glass, I sidled past her. I reached for a glass and something caught my eye in the washing machine. The red/black French Maid panties, dropping across the window, as the barrel started to turn and the foamy water rose. I’ve never known Sarah accidentally put darks in with a light load before.
Today we spend the afternoon with the k**s walking in the grounds of a Stately Home. Sarah and I stroll. The k**s run and play. Sarah joins in with them occasionally whilst I hobble along on my walking stick. This is classy Sarah. Wholesome Boden and Joules clad Sarah. The lady that the elderly villagers refer to as ‘the beautiful one.’ Hair tied back, laughing and frolicking, amongst the trees, in the dappled sunshine, with her young c***dren.
Leaving them and returning to the path she takes my hand.
‘Isn’t it beautiful? It’s so much nicer when there’s nobody here.’
‘Yeah they should limit numbers like this all the time.’
‘Then they wouldn’t make enough money to maintain the place silly.’
‘I know… I wasn’t serious.’
‘I never know whether you are being serious or not.’
‘Mostly I’m not.’
‘God... It’s like a trick that you play! You make out everything is a joke. I swear it's so that when somebody takes something that you said seriously, if it all goes wrong, you can deny any responsibility... saying that it’s not your fault... because you weren’t being serious.’
‘I’m always serious when it comes to you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?
‘I’m seriously in love with you. Honestly.. nothing could stop me loving you.’
I stop her an kiss her tenderly. The c***dren catch us up.
‘Ughhh gross! Get a room!’ Brandon complains and they both turn away laughing.
She uncouples her lips from mine.
‘Where ever would I find anyone who loves me as much as you do?’ She plants one last kiss on my lips. ‘You strange man.’
Then she turns to the c***dren. ‘Come on everybody!…. Family Hug!’
After a lovely family afternoon, a typically mouth-watering, home cooked, evening meal, and a few glasses of wine whilst entwined on the sofa, I’m aching to make love with her. We’ve not had good sex for a month.
At bedtime I take her in my arms. I have a hard on. She puts a hand upon it.
‘Really?’
‘I can’t help wanting to make love with you.’
‘I’m tired…. I think I’m over sex now. I’m too old for it. I’d rather just sleep. I could easily live without it.’
‘You can’t be over sex… that’s ridiculous.’
She rolls onto her back. She says ‘Just do it if you have to.’
I start working nu cock into her dry pussy slowly and gently. She isn’t even moving. I kiss her neck. She flips at me.
‘Don’t do that! I hate that! Don’t I always tell you that I hate that?’
‘Ok sorry… I’ll be more careful.’
I gently stroke her breast. She pushes my hand away.
‘Just get on with it.’ She sighs.
I stop. I tell her, ‘I want to make you cum.’
‘What? Really?...’
‘I don’t want to do it if you’re not into it.’
‘Oh for fucks sake! Do I have to?’
I roll off her and lay on my side next to her. ‘I love making you cum. I like it more than my own orgasms. Your orgasms are what sex is all about for me.’
She pulls me back onto her and sighs ‘Come on then. Get on with it.’.
I place my hand between her legs as I begin to work my cock into her again.
‘I don’t want that.’ She pushes my hand away.
I kiss her.
‘Not like that.’ She pulls her head away. ‘If you must kiss me do it like this.’ She demonstrates some very specific kissing which involves gently biting the bottom lip. I try to do it.
‘For fucks sake. Not like that. Like this!’ She demonstrates again.
By now I’ve stopped fucking her. (If that’s what you could call it.) I’m getting a lesson in some sort of, very specific, new form of kissing. When I finally get it right she closes her eyes and gradually becomes wet enough for me to fully penetrate her. Although it feels like she is having to make an effort to set her mind somewhere else.
Eventually she starts to half hardheartedly work her hips. After a while she comes but without any real interest, feeling, or effort. It’s not faked. It isn’t good enough to be faked. No woman would fake like this. It’s so short and unenthusiastic that it’s practically sarcastic. I morosely blow my load into her, trying to imagine that I’m Steve, but somehow I can’t even imagine that. Not with her like this. I’m stuck in reality. I’m her slightly flabby, Dad bod, husband and this is the worst sex we’ve ever had. It’s not enjoyable for either of us.
Afterwards she rolls away from me and I hold her. But not tightly. She doesn’t want to be held tightly tonight, she doesn’t want me close. I try to fall asleep but I lay thinking that the sex was so unpleasant that, perhaps it’s better that she does live without it, perhaps I ought not to have sex with her any more.
She is messaging a lot more than usual.
She is out a lot at odd times. To run, or to walk with a friend. I never see these friends. Sometimes after returning, she is flushed, red faced, and elated. She will schedule a time for a run, or walk, and then change it, and change it again, or even cancel it. When they are cancelled her moods are appalling.
I tell myself that her behavior, mood changes, and lack of interest in sex are due to the stresses and strains of life in lock down. My paranoia says different. It relentlessly pesters me. Its even got me picking her panties out of the wash basket to inspect them for evidence of infidelity. I’ve noticed that she often runs in her sexiest panties. On those occasions the panties always get scurried straight into the wash on her return home.
My paranoia competes with my desire to share her as if I am two different people. Recently she came back from a run and told me a funny story. About how she had got so hot that, as she was running back over some fields, she had taken her top off to cool down.
There she was, in the corner of a field, in her bra and leggings, with no top on, when a family that lives nearby appeared from an adjoining track. Oh how they all laughed. And so did I as she told me the tale. And all the while my paranoia was ranting;
‘What the fuck is this bullshit?... Too hot so she took her top off... It was a slim fit t-shirt for fuck sake!... How much cooler would she be without that on?... She probably got sprung, half dressed, by the neighbors, and now she has to pre-empt them mentioning something to you!… Open your eyes man!’
I ignored my paranoia and I continued to laugh at her story. I commented that the husband probably thought it was a shame that she hadn’t got her bra off as well. She joked that maybe she would do that next time.
Yesterday, when I woke, she was up and dressing for work. She had on a pair of standard plain black panties. She was facing the dresser, her back to me. I quietly watched her put her bra on and pick out a pair of black trousers. Trousers in hand, she turned to face me, and seeing that I was awake, she hesitated.
‘Nah… I’m not the mood for these today.’
She put them away and took out a short summer skirt. After pulling on the skirt she lifted it and pulled off her panties.
‘Nor these...’
She placed them back in the draw and took out a French Maid style thong in black and red. (I bought her the skirt and the thong. So I felt a giddy rush of excitement.) I said nothing because I didn’t want to put her off. Inside I was congratulating myself on a watershed moment in gradually getting her to dress sexier. After all she was dressing for work.
I was so pleased that she went to work dressed that way that I didn’t read any more into it. Not until the early evening, when she arrived home from work late, went straight upstairs, and into the shower. She’s never showered straight after work before.
I stuck my head around the bathroom door to welcome her home and to tell her that the dinner was ready. I noticed the french maid thong, on the bathroom floor, in a pile with her clothes. My paranoia came rushing. Urging me:
‘Pick them up! Look at the crotch. What did she go to work dressed like that for? Why has she come home and got straight into the shower? You fool! You have to get your hands on those panties! Check them for staining.’
But obviously I couldn’t. Not with her right there, standing in the shower, with just the glass screen between us. I decided that I would take a look at them later, in the wash basket. Transfixed by the panties, I wondered how I have become so distrustful of her that I’m desperate to inspect her panties as soon as she walks through the door?
‘I don’t need an audience! Fuck off!’ She’d commanded from behind the glass shower screen, snapping me out of my trance.
I quietly went back downstairs, to the kitchen, where I dished out the dinner. A little time later she appeared with a load of white and light colored washing in her arms. She put it into the washing machine and set a wash going.
‘Dinner’s ready. It’s on the table.’ I told her.
‘Yeah ok! I just want to get this wash on. Pour me a glass of wine, I’ll be right there.’
As I went to the cupboard, for a wine glass, I sidled past her. I reached for a glass and something caught my eye in the washing machine. The red/black French Maid panties, dropping across the window, as the barrel started to turn and the foamy water rose. I’ve never known Sarah accidentally put darks in with a light load before.
Today we spend the afternoon with the k**s walking in the grounds of a Stately Home. Sarah and I stroll. The k**s run and play. Sarah joins in with them occasionally whilst I hobble along on my walking stick. This is classy Sarah. Wholesome Boden and Joules clad Sarah. The lady that the elderly villagers refer to as ‘the beautiful one.’ Hair tied back, laughing and frolicking, amongst the trees, in the dappled sunshine, with her young c***dren.
Leaving them and returning to the path she takes my hand.
‘Isn’t it beautiful? It’s so much nicer when there’s nobody here.’
‘Yeah they should limit numbers like this all the time.’
‘Then they wouldn’t make enough money to maintain the place silly.’
‘I know… I wasn’t serious.’
‘I never know whether you are being serious or not.’
‘Mostly I’m not.’
‘God... It’s like a trick that you play! You make out everything is a joke. I swear it's so that when somebody takes something that you said seriously, if it all goes wrong, you can deny any responsibility... saying that it’s not your fault... because you weren’t being serious.’
‘I’m always serious when it comes to you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?
‘I’m seriously in love with you. Honestly.. nothing could stop me loving you.’
I stop her an kiss her tenderly. The c***dren catch us up.
‘Ughhh gross! Get a room!’ Brandon complains and they both turn away laughing.
She uncouples her lips from mine.
‘Where ever would I find anyone who loves me as much as you do?’ She plants one last kiss on my lips. ‘You strange man.’
Then she turns to the c***dren. ‘Come on everybody!…. Family Hug!’
After a lovely family afternoon, a typically mouth-watering, home cooked, evening meal, and a few glasses of wine whilst entwined on the sofa, I’m aching to make love with her. We’ve not had good sex for a month.
At bedtime I take her in my arms. I have a hard on. She puts a hand upon it.
‘Really?’
‘I can’t help wanting to make love with you.’
‘I’m tired…. I think I’m over sex now. I’m too old for it. I’d rather just sleep. I could easily live without it.’
‘You can’t be over sex… that’s ridiculous.’
She rolls onto her back. She says ‘Just do it if you have to.’
I start working nu cock into her dry pussy slowly and gently. She isn’t even moving. I kiss her neck. She flips at me.
‘Don’t do that! I hate that! Don’t I always tell you that I hate that?’
‘Ok sorry… I’ll be more careful.’
I gently stroke her breast. She pushes my hand away.
‘Just get on with it.’ She sighs.
I stop. I tell her, ‘I want to make you cum.’
‘What? Really?...’
‘I don’t want to do it if you’re not into it.’
‘Oh for fucks sake! Do I have to?’
I roll off her and lay on my side next to her. ‘I love making you cum. I like it more than my own orgasms. Your orgasms are what sex is all about for me.’
She pulls me back onto her and sighs ‘Come on then. Get on with it.’.
I place my hand between her legs as I begin to work my cock into her again.
‘I don’t want that.’ She pushes my hand away.
I kiss her.
‘Not like that.’ She pulls her head away. ‘If you must kiss me do it like this.’ She demonstrates some very specific kissing which involves gently biting the bottom lip. I try to do it.
‘For fucks sake. Not like that. Like this!’ She demonstrates again.
By now I’ve stopped fucking her. (If that’s what you could call it.) I’m getting a lesson in some sort of, very specific, new form of kissing. When I finally get it right she closes her eyes and gradually becomes wet enough for me to fully penetrate her. Although it feels like she is having to make an effort to set her mind somewhere else.
Eventually she starts to half hardheartedly work her hips. After a while she comes but without any real interest, feeling, or effort. It’s not faked. It isn’t good enough to be faked. No woman would fake like this. It’s so short and unenthusiastic that it’s practically sarcastic. I morosely blow my load into her, trying to imagine that I’m Steve, but somehow I can’t even imagine that. Not with her like this. I’m stuck in reality. I’m her slightly flabby, Dad bod, husband and this is the worst sex we’ve ever had. It’s not enjoyable for either of us.
Afterwards she rolls away from me and I hold her. But not tightly. She doesn’t want to be held tightly tonight, she doesn’t want me close. I try to fall asleep but I lay thinking that the sex was so unpleasant that, perhaps it’s better that she does live without it, perhaps I ought not to have sex with her any more.
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