She Came to Me – Part 2: The Second Night (L)

(L) – This story contains strong language. 

 

Read Part 1 of the story here.

 

The next morning was uncomfortable.

We woke up as normal, looked at each other, smiled—and then both instantly recoiled when the memories of the previous day and night hit us. It was not a good place to be. I am not sure who wanted to be gone first—me or her.

I had shared my inner emotional self—that part I had promised as a young boy that no one would ever see. Never. Ever. And I threw it out to her like it carried no value. Raw. Without shame or constraint. I was embarrassed. My wife had seen me in my weakest self. I had exposed my inner child and wimp. I had begged for her forgiveness. My strong, I-will-take-you-woman bravado was gone. I had been just a scared little boy again.

Even so, I told her last night was awesome. My morning wood was very prominent, and I was somewhat horny and loaded, and told her how incredible she was.

Note to self: don’t tell your wife first thing in the morning how unrestrained she acted, how she was covered in cum, or how she squirted. That’s not very romantic. I realised it a little too late as she drew back from me a bit, and I shut up before I dug myself into an even deeper hole.

Instead, I just gave her the biggest hungry smile I ever had, took her by the hand, and overcame her reluctance by gently pulling her into the bathroom to shower. I undressed her, then caressed her. For now, I avoided her beautiful, engorged pussy and didn’t touch her breasts, instead making a show of looking at her naked.

She didn’t cover up, but she seemed annoyed. I pressed on despite her apparent discomfort.

I gently guided her into the shower and soaped her body, using every ounce of strength in me to avoid her beautiful pussy, open in full display, and so inviting. She was literally still dripping juices from last night . . . and maybe fresh arousal? Fuck, I wanted nothing more than to bend her over the bath and fuck her doggy style.

But instead, I ignored my erection and gently washed her hair. I may have “accidentally” touched her with my magnificent manhood to see if she would take the bait. But the shop was closed. I think it closed down and moved away overnight.

I decided to give her some space, so after I helped rinse her hair, I quickly washed myself and my own hair, then exited the shower.

As I stepped out, a glance back showed me she was still unhappy, maybe even angry as she continued washing herself. I couldn’t tell if she was angry at me, or angry with herself for being aroused. I could see her repeatedly moving to touch herself, then pulling back. She seemed to be in stimulation overdrive and uncomfortably sensitive. She noticed me looking and gave me a look of murder.

I may have been bold and brave the previous day, but now I was risking getting pulled apart by her. Yes, giving her some space right now was definitely the best decision.

I left and started making toast and eggs for her, myself, and our son—an awesome son, loving, kind, gentle, and strong, who had been awarded as the best academic student in his class.

When she exited the bedroom to have breakfast, she wore a dress. Now, from part one, you may recall that when she wears a dress, she may as well be naked to my eyes. I looked at her, my desire growing, and went to her.

She literally growled at me—a low warning.

I carefully hugged her and stepped away.

We had breakfast. We prayed. We talked. We included our son in a normal family conversation.

After the meal, my son left, and the two of us talked again as husband and wife. It was a deep, emotional talk about the years of hurt and wrong between us. She cried, and told me how deeply I hurt her. Then she stopped, got up, faced me, and told me that if I ever hurt her again, in her words, “I will fuck you up.”

I was somewhat surprised. We had this lovely evening last night, and now she had just threatened me. A month ago, I would have exploded with rage. I would have put her in her place. After all, aren’t I the man of the house?

Instead, I looked at her. I went to her. I kissed her gently. I apologised again and asked her to forgive me. My bold I-will-not-bow-to-any-woman-ever-again attitude was gone.

She smiled, leaned into me, held me tight, and made me more coffee.

I went to the loft to work, daydreaming about our first night together. Our first night in twenty years.

I went downstairs a few times to get coffee, hugged her, talked with her. She cried. I cried. Over and over, every time we talked. I found her vulnerability . . . exciting.

She felt my desire grow a few times, and made it pretty clear I would not be getting any. She was tired, sore, a little ashamed and disgusted at the night before, and emotionally overwhelmed.

I responded by hugging her, kissing her gently, and whispering sweet declarations of love into her ear.

I inwardly wondered where my bravado had gone. I had claimed I would bed her, when I wanted, no excuses. Yet here I was, respecting her wishes. Without anger. Without resentment. Instead, with . . . love? Truly, something had transformed, and I was still bewildered by it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

We spent most of the day together on and off, having short conversations, then splitting up again.

Later in the afternoon, I got a notification from a courier company.

Before this new journey had begun, she had asked me to order a specific nightwear item. This was just after she had decided to leave me—but she didn’t disclose that at the time. It was like a dress, made of tight-fitting cotton, with open shoulders, back, and neck. It was long, falling all the way to the ankles, with a long slit up the sides to the pelvic area. It came with a complimentary styled gown.

It was supposed to be delivered two weeks after ordering, which was long enough that we had completely forgotten about it. Now the company was asking me to fetch it around 7 PM tonight.

I fetched the delivery. I didn’t tell her it was hers, I just said it was something I had ordered. I left it on the kitchen table for a while. When she sat down to have supper, I opened the boxed package and showed her what it was.

Now let me be clear: this was not lingerie. It was just a sleep dress. But it might as well have been lingerie. It was tight-fitting, and sensual, leaving the shoulders and upper back exposed. The gown was just enough to cover everything, leaving plenty to the imagination, but showing just enough to tease.

She put it on after we showered together.

Oh, my soul. It was beautiful. She was so beautiful.

The tight cotton moved like her skin. It was loose enough around her breasts and waist to not show anything, but clung just tight enough to show exactly where everything was. The gown, made of the same material, only further fuelled my growing desire.

She looked at the tent in my pajama pants. My pre-cum had wet me, almost like I had peed. She sighed and dropped her head in frustration, anger, and annoyance, and told me to go sleep upstairs. She would join me when the dog was calm and our son was in bed.

Wait, she was going to join me? I think I had an existential crisis.

My prudish wife does not offer intimacy. Never. Especially not two nights in a row. Especially not when she could barely walk all day and you could see she was struggling—walking slowly because everything was rubbing, and not in the good way.

Yet here she was, building up my hope after previously telling me not now, and not soon.

I went upstairs and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Forever.

I gave up and decided to just sleep and not even call her. I should be happy about last night and not push my luck. The wimp was emerging again. I feel so useless sometimes.

I decided to read Marriage Heat for some excitement and then sleep. I was in a story when I heard her moving in the house. I closed the browser.

And yes, she came upstairs. She did not look very happy. She told me she was dead tired and would prefer to go downstairs and sleep.

I sighed, held her close while she lay next to me, and talked—you know, that thing men don’t do. I talked, and I did not force intimacy. Most of the talk was her rehearsing every single way I had hurt her in the past. I just held her while she cried.

We talked more and cried more. At one point she said she was emotionally overwhelmed, tired, and didn’t have the energy for anything but sleep. I was deeply disappointed.

I kissed her gently, told her I loved her, and said she should rest. We’d had a rough few days, and I knew she needed it. My “no more excuses” bravado was still missing after flying straight out the window last night.

She shifted away, just outside my reach.

I was frustrated and confused. I never turn down sex. When she is near me in bed, in any way signaling that she isn’t completely disgusted by my presence, I usually take my shot, because it may be weeks or months before the next opportunity. But here I was, knowing I could probably get her to relent if I pushed, and instead I kissed her gently and told her to sleep. The “I am the man and I will take you whenever” attitude I had brought into my identity had dissolved so quickly that I hadn’t even noticed it happening.

She opened her eyes and looked at me with surprise. Then she leaned onto my chest. I could hear her soft breathing.

She asked if I had noticed her lovely, comfortable sleepwear.

I said it was beautiful and soft, but there was nothing comfortable about it.

She frowned, looked at me, then noticed my erection standing proud and tall under my light sleepwear. I could see the “Oh, that’s what he means” realization cross her face.

To my utter surprise, instead of turning away to sleep, she reached down and pulled my sturdy erection out. She reached for her bottle of lube, lathered me in it, and slowly, while looking at me, moved her hand up and down, smiling.

I was confused. She had just told me no sex tonight.

I wondered if she was testing this new me—the one who wouldn’t explode if he didn’t get sex. Maybe she expected me to accept it, love her, hug her, kiss her goodnight, hold her, and let it end there.

Instead, she reached for me.

I was dumbstruck.

At this point I was beyond my own resolve to let her rest. While lying next to her, I had her panties off in a flash and her dress pushed up. I tried to move into our usual head-by-feet position so I could stare at that beautiful pussy, but she indicated no.

I stayed beside her, only able to see her face. Her breasts were still covered, her pussy hidden. I could only see her well-maintained but rowdy bush. I could not see the source of my desire. Even with the bedside light on, I could see nothing.

I am visually stimulated. I wanted to see her, taste her. But it was closed. Not tonight. So I kissed her, caressed her shoulders, and looked at her face up close. As much as I wanted to see her pussy, I knew when to take the moment. She seemed open to continuing in this position, though, so I did.

Usually her lips stick together like they’re glued, and it takes time to separate them gently to avoid friction. Oil or some other lubricant was almost unnecessary. So I took the lube bottle and placed ample amounts on my hand, reaching for her. Her pussy was open, waiting, ready. She was wet. Lying beside her, head to head, feet to feet, I had limited reach. I tried to adjust, but she again made it clear I should stay.

I stayed in the same orientation and just shifted down slightly to access her better. With one hand, I spread her pussy lips wide and attacked her clit slowly, with mild force.

I could not see her. I could not smell her. I was being denied sensory input.

I continued anyway.

After a while I felt her breath quicken. I saw a vein on her soft neck enlarge and pulse. I knew she was heating up.

I whispered in her ear to cum, to release, to let me see her pleasure.

I kept going. I didn’t speed up or slow down. Not harder, not softer. She arched her back and came. I did not remove my hand. I kept rubbing her clit like my life depended on it.

When she finally stopped shuddering, she took my hand away.

Silence.

After a while, in a sleepy voice, she asked, “What about you?”

I told her it had been nine months since we’d had intercourse. I wanted to penetrate her.

She is usually uncomfortable with penetration, so it rarely happens.

She said okay.

I tried to move to take her missionary, but again she stopped me.

She said she wanted to lie on her back, one leg raised, one lowered, and I should meet her in a T-configuration.

I was not excited. This meant I could not penetrate her with more than the head of my penis. Not what I wanted. I wanted to be deep inside her. But I didn’t want to start a fight. I took what I could get. But the years of drought and disappointment weighed on me, I lost some of my erection.

I moved my penis tip up and down her pussy folds. She was soaked. I tried to enter her, but failed. Her muscles locked down like a gate snapping shut.

I asked her to masturbate me to get me harder and tried again, but I could still barely get the tip in.

I reached around and rubbed her pussy lips myself. She gave me a stare that I couldn’t completely interpret, but I could only assume it wasn’t good. This night was not going well.

I placed my hand on her sopping-wet pussy and started rubbing her clit. I could feel her annoyance. I thought it was at me. My erection weakened further.

Despite all the challenges, I tried again to enter her. This time I got just the tip in, just able to penetrate her, but it was still frustratingly shallow.

Then I saw her face contort, and . . . She was enjoying it!

I was stunned. My prude wife was lying back, focusing on her pleasure so much that she seemed to be almost ignoring me.

I tried harder to stimulate her clit and please her even more. But she yelped in pain and said I was hurting her.

What was happening?

I lost even more rigidity and slipped out of her. Then she got really annoyed and told me she was about to come when I stopped. She was pissed. She looked at my member and knew I was not going to be up to it.

She angrily pushed my hands away and said she would make herself cum and I should just wait until she was done. She closed her eyes, spread her pussy lips, and feverishly attacked her clit.

She’s surprised me multiple times tonight. My prude wife, apparently not so prudish anymore, had just said she would masturbate right here until she came.

I don’t know what happened next, but suddenly I ejaculated. On her pussy. On her stomach. I was nearly flaccid, but I came hard, with no further physical stimulation, spewing my seed over her hands and open pussy.

I was outside her, receiving no stimulation, with neither her hands nor mine anywhere near my penis.

She looked at me, looked down at my cum covering her, lifted an eyebrow in a surprised “what was that?” expression. Then she smiled, and continued masturbating.

I was stunned. I had just come without stimulation, coating her in semen, and she didn’t jump up to wash. She didn’t show disgust. She just smiled and continued masturbating—in my presence. My wife does not masturbate. At least, not in front of me, and not at all that I was aware.

Last night she may have relented to my persistence. But this was different. She did this herself—unprompted, free. The wild mare, the vixen, was back—and tonight I was secondary. For the first time ever, she focused on her pleasure and nearly ignored me.

Then I heard it before I felt it.

She squirted again. This time two forceful squirts. She moaned out loud, and the dog on the stairs barked at the unexpected noise. She didn’t care. She was free.

She looked down at the wetness, felt it, and asked calmly, “Did I squirt again?” There was nothing more erotic. So calm. Collected. Unashamed.

She took a towel, placed it where she could, and yielded into me, holding me tight.

Her pussy was still covered in my semen, her glorious bush painted white with my seed. I was drenched from her liquid.

She lay into me with a blissful smile.

I replayed the scene in my head.

Last night she seemed disgusted when I asked her to masturbate for me. Tonight, she was so willing to do it that she put me aside.

I couldn’t maintain an erection from disappointment and she did nothing about it. Instead, she took care of herself. Part of me wanted to be hurt at that, but it was also a beautiful view, and it told me of something changing in her.

She was no longer there for my pleasure. She did not fear me exploding in anger. She did not fear blame, shame, or punishment.

She was a woman. A sexual being.

She was alive.

She took control of her own freedom, and masturbated freely in my presence without caring what I needed. She squirted twice and didn’t care that she was covered in semen and her own liquid.

I told her what had happened: that when she’d pushed my hands away, I’d gone flaccid and popped out of her, and when she’d touched herself, I came hard and involuntarily with a flaccid penis.

She laughed and said she noticed. There was no shame in her voice. No fear. Just delight. This was the same woman who had once sat on the picnic table by her parents’ pool, spread her legs, and said to me “Look what I’ve got.”

No fear. No shame. No disgust. Free from her own hurt.

This was the same woman.

I’d found her again.

 

To be continued in Part 3 next week.