Pelude and …

I’d met a client in London earlier in the day. My Wife was taking a day of leave and schools had broken up for the summer, so we made a family day of it with all of us meeting up and hitting a museum after my meeting.
Relations had been strained over the last week.
On the way home we discussed supper. She offered to pick up something from the supermarket on our way home from the station. It would mean Her walking in one direction, and the rest of us going the other. Not a huge detour for Her, but not the direct route.

When She got home She proffered a bottle of wine.
She drinks very little, and it is rare for Her to buy a bottle of anything.
And then She opened it to breathe.
This was not normal behaviour.
She was up to something.

That night, when we went to bed, She put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t retreat to my usual place at the edge of the bed with my back to Her. Or not for 10 or 15min. But there were no more indications of anything, and ultimately I detached.

Come the morning, as my twitching morning wood tugged at the duvet, again Her hand rested on my shoulder. Again it made no more progress. My dick slumped. I put my hand on the exposed skin of Her hip. My dick woke up again and resumed its rhythmic request. She seemed to snooze off and my erection remained unanswered, so I detached, got out of bed, and my tumescence headed for the kitchen with me trotting along behind it like an obedient puppy.

The day did not go well. Far from it. Though that was only tangentially related to how well We were getting on. We coped OK with the shit that had hit the fan.

On the sofa that evening we were at opposite ends. Yet there was a sense we were avoiding one another for reasons other than irritation.

And …

9 Responses to “Pelude and …”

  1. Oh a cliffhanger…

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