The answer is …

Granted I’d dropped a flirtatious line earlier.
Unusually She’d made a comment on social media about something I’d posted that could easily have been viewed as laden with innuendo.
And I confess I did absolutely nothing hasty to conceal the twitching bulge in my jeans from Her when we’d sat next to each other later.
But after supper we’d sat on separate sofas all evening – me repairing a pair of shorts, Her searching for hotels on Her tablet.
We watched stand-up comedy show where a female comic was relating how sex she wanted more than her boyfriend, how she therofore put her boyfriend in an unwinnable position, and how she wasn’t very good at sex.

Come bed time, I still wasn’t finished sewing when She commented on the hour. I said I’d be up soon.

I heard Her busying Herself upstairs. Unusually so. It was like She was delaying something.

I finished sewing, and went upstairs.
Of course I wanted sex, but there is still something visceral that means

I don’t want sex with Her. Even though I do.
I didn’t want sex with Her. But I did.
The bedroom was still fully lit.
As I walked in I could see She wasn’t wearing Her ubiquitous baggy, threadbare nightshirt. Her shoulders were bare. It was a safe assumption that the rest of Her was too.
Her: How are you doing?
Me: Tired.
I was. I’d spent several hours digging in the garden and I was knackered.
I got into bed, turned the light out and She moved towards me, resting Her hand on my shoulder.
Her: I assume too tired for sex?
I already new She wanted sex.
I knew I wanted sex.
I knew I didn’t want sex.
I had already made my decision before I got into bed. Was I too tired for sex?
Me: No.
There was a moment’s pause, as if needing to process the information, before She snuggled up close and Her hand went straight for my flaccid cock, even before I had a chance to put an arm around Her.

I stroked Her back and Her arse, but Her body language was anything but open. There was little indication that manual access would be granted.
All the while Her hand was fastened around my erection. The kind of erection that is sufficiently engorged to be almost uncomfortably hard.
With the recent confirmation that She now likes sex to be forceful, I tried to grab a handful of tit. Not in an offensive way, but rather in a similar manner to that which She had obviously enjoyed.
I was told to be gentle.
Fuck! I really do find myself between the Scylla and Charybdis on such occasions. Forceful but gentle.
Fuck! How the fuck am I supposed to know the difference?
More stroking of Her back from me, whilst She still maintained Her grasp of my dick.
She dug Her fingers into my pec, and rubbed my nipple. I assumed this was some sort of indication of what She wanted to receive, so I reciprocated, cautiously aimed a forefinger and thumb between my chest and Her squashed boob, targeting Her almost exposed nipple.
Her: Ouch!
I had barely touched it. Really! I certainly hadn’t applied any pressure.
Her: Maybe another position.
She didn’t move, and with Her draped over me it was difficult to see how I was supposed to.

I was getting bored, and my hands slowed from slow to slower to …
Noticing this, She knelt up, shuffled down the bed, and went down on me.
Still little more than an inch, despite my attempts to time my pseudo-involuntary upward spasms to match the downward movement of Her mouth. I failed to entice Her to consume any more of me orally, but it wasn’t a bad blowjob.

She moved back up, and kissed me hard. I dug my tongue into Her mouth, enjoying the taste of my own pre-cum.
And now She seemed to want to be grabbed, and squeezed, and groped. Forcefully.
The fingers of one of my hands dug into Her tit whilst those of the other wrapped tightly around the back of Her neck.
She forced Her mons down on my thigh.
I moved a hand to Her arse and again dug my fingers into Her flesh.
She buried Her face in my neck.
I moved the other hand between Her thighs from behind and reached for Her snatch.
She moved to I could reach more easily.

This was more like it.
This was more like good sex.
The difference being that She gave every sign of wanting sex.
Signs of actually enjoying being sexually pleasured.
I eased the tips two fingers between Her folds.
She was wet. And the more She allowed me to play the wetter She got.
I drew small circles between Her wet inner lips.
I ran a finger along Her wet petals.
I confess I have never been afforded the opportunity to get to know Her geography in the way I’d like, and have rarely truly been permitted to wank Her properly, so with the sever angle I was having to contort my wrist into  I couldn’t be sure, but I’d swear She let me caress Her wet clit.
Dip a finger into Her wet pussy.
Trace forward along Her wet slit.
Circle around Her wet clit.
Dip. Trace. Circle.
Wet.
Dip. Trace. Circle.
Wetter.
Dip. Trace. Circle.
Wettest.
Dip. Trace. Circle.
Repeat.
And there wasn’t a single indication that She either didn’t like it nor that She wanted me to stop.
I wanted to feel my fingers inside Her. To bury them deep in Her quim and do what I’ve historically been assured by others I used to do so well. But at that angle I just couldn’t reach.
Her: I’d rather have you inside me. If that’s OK?
Me: Yeah.
She disengaged, reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out, what I am now as certain as I can be was, the last condom in the house.
She rolled it on to my still barely comfortably swollen member, climbed aboard, and slid it effortlessly into Her slick cunt.

The fucking was hard.
I fucked Her as hard and as forcefully as I could. Thrusting my cock as deep into Her as possible. Grinding my pelvis up against Her mound. My fingers again digging alternately into Her tits, Her arse, Her thighs and around the back of Her neck. Her one arm was tucked under my back, and when She went to move it, I pinned it there with a small movement of my shoulder. Her other arm was equally trapped by mine, and our legs were intertwined so that one of Hers was also restrained. I even dared to entangle my fingers in Her hair and give it a gentle pull. None of which met with the customary disapproval. And I continued to fuck Her as hard as I could.

The fucking was also hard because I was tired. Really tired. My arms ached from digging in the garden [Ed: No, Dear Reader, he doesn’t mean dicking in the lady garden.] and I could feel there was little sugar left in my muscles.
But it grates on me to give up due to fatigue.
So despite my depleted energy reserves, we fucked on.
By now She was fucking almost as hard as I was: if I slowed, She rode me harder.
She has talked in the past about Her orgasms being like climbing a mountain, of plateaus of pleasure. I can’t say She reached the summit, but I was in little doubt She reached several such plateaus, the final most breathless ascent resulting when I gave one of Her nipples a vigorous tongue-lashing.

And then She turned Her attention to me.
As is Her method, She reached a hand round behind Her to stroke my balls. My freshly waxed balls, drenched in Her juices.
Despite wearing who knew which condom (certainly not one of the thin ones) there was a moment when I thought I actually might cum in Her pussy. I picked up the pace. Driving my dick into Her with a focus on speed rather than penetration.
Between tiredness and the sheath, my moment seemed to slip away.
But She refocused on rubbing at my balls, my crotch utterly soaked with Her wetness. [Ed: Considering how wet She has got on a few occasions, it is tempting to wonder how easily She could squirt, though if She won’t let AM wank Her we may never find out.]
I fucked fast again. I felt my potential increase.
And then ebb.
And She rubbed harder and faster, almost at the peril of rubbing one of my balls too hard and bringing the whole affair to an abrupt kick-in-the-balls type halt. But not quite.
And I fucked Her fast again.
Her fingers spun around my junk as a river of Her liquid pleasure ran down my arse crack and over my hole.
And I fucked as fast and as hard and as desperately as I have in far too long and …

And FUCK ME that was a strong orgasm.
When was the last time I shot my load in Her cunt?
I can’t remember.
I could feel the jets and spasm just keep coming and coming and cumming and cumming and …
And She kept riding me till I collapsed in a silent, rictus cloud of endorphic high.

Part of me wanted to thank Her. But another rationalised that gratitude was not the right thing to be expressing.
A few words were exchanged.
She thanked me.
I thanked Her.
And we curled up and went to sleep.
Even when we turned our backs on each other, it was not with the separation that it usually is.

2 Responses to “The answer is …”

  1. This:

    I don’t want sex with Her. Even though I do.
    I didn’t want sex with Her. But I did.

    …and this:

    I knew I wanted sex.
    I knew I didn’t want sex.

    Breaks my heart because it’s all too familiar these days.

    I am very glad for you that it ended as well as it did!

    • It’s always good to know I’m not the only one.
      Actually it’s shit to know I’m not the only one – I wouldn’t wish this on others, but it’s reassuring that I may not be a unique freak.
      Your right about the happy ending. It was hard work getting us both there, in all kinds of ways – some of them good ways – but it’s the yes-no-yes-no-yes-no crap that makes me want to give up.
      For some reason I am the eternal optimist and every time, out of the blue, She decides She wants to fuck, I think we’ve turned the page. I’m just tired of having to put the book down.

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