Emptying half a glass

I stopped initiating sex with my Wife years ago, long before we even got married, because I was tired of the rejection. There was nothing malicious in Her dismissals – I’m sure She didn’t mean to engender feelings of frustration, anger, hurt. Nor was there was anything positive – there was no tease, no joyous anticipation, no prelude to greater enjoyment.

So I pretty much gave up. You can only take No for an answer so many times.

And for a long time I’ve though that was why I still don’t try to initiate sex with my Wife. That was the answer I was ready to give Her if She ever asked why.

We had the house to ourselves last night. We went to see a play. We went to Her favorite restaurant. It was inevitable that we’d have sex this morning. I could have told you it would happen weeks ago.

She initiated.

She was unusually receptive when I reached for Her tit. I massaged, stroked and teased, and only once was I told to be gentle.
She was unprecedentedly receptive when I reached for Her cunt. She moved to give me better access as my hand moved down Her belly. She moved to give me better access as my fingers brushed against Her thatch. She moved to give me better access as I massaged Her mound. She moved to give me better access as my palm cupped the curve of Her snatch. She moved to give me better access as my finger tips grazed against Her pussy lips. And She ground down on my hand. She may even have had a small orgasm. Then She climbed on top and we fumbled my rigid shaft into Her surprisingly un-lubricated and tense hole.

We fucked for a while, and unusually quickly She reached round to play with my balls. I like it when She does this, although it has become predictable – She always does it when She wants me to cum. As I often do, I put my hand on Her’s as She toyed with my nuts. I’d dearly love to run my fingers along Her slit when my cock is sliding in and out of it – to feel Her wetness, Her heat, Her velvet soft folds. It would turn me on. It ought to turn Her on. She always stops me and moves my hand away. But She’d enjoyed me stroking Her pussy only minutes earlier. Maybe today She’d let me stroke Her while I stroked into Her.

No.

And that breaks the spell for me. It kills the moment. The drive to drive my dick deep into Her dissipates even as Her hand starts to move to stop mine.

And although it is my own fault – I expect to be rejected – I still try to touch Her pretty much every time we fuck. And every time the result is the same.

Both my hands stopped their stroking. My head back slumped into the pillow. My hips sped up, banging away meaninglessly at Her for probably less than a minute. And then, still un-drained and with an pleasingly turgid cock, I pulled out of Her, made my excuses, and went to the bathroom to relieve my bladder.

It was a genuine need, but not so great that I needed to stop fucking my Wife.

It was a genuine sense of futility, and great enough that I wanted to stop fucking my Wife.

And as I sat on the toilet, forcing my reluctant shaft to point downwards, my head swam and my heart sank.

On returning to bed, my dick was limp. We cuddled up, and my Wife said now where were we? I said nothing and despite it being stroked and squeezed, I allowed my manhood to remain flaccid. My Wife gave up.

I felt relief.
I felt crap.

We lay there, not talking. Not communicating. Doubtless both knowing that was the wrong thing to do.

As I stared at the patterns the morning light cast on the ceiling as it strained though the blinds, I realised that whilst I stopped initiating sex with my Wife because I was sick of the rejection, that is no longer the case.

Now, I avoid initiating sex with my Wife because so often I feel worse after having sex with Her than I would if I did not.

The glass is never full.

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