On Monday, my knees ached.
I'd been kneeling on our bedroom floor for almost an hour, completely at my husband's behest. But, I didn't complain--it was the first time in weeks that he had initiated anything sexual with me. It's unusual of Julien to abstain, since he has a very active libido, but he'd been playing it off as having been extra drained from work lately. So, I savored the moment (and taste) as I fellated him; given our dry spell, I didn't know when I'd have the privilege of servicing him next.
While I worked him over with my mouth, in the rear of my mind I counted backwards to the precise date on which I confirmed all my suspicions. It was exactly four weeks since I caught him with someone else, and it wasn't lost on me that this time frame coincided perfectly with his supposed lack of physical appetite.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he strengthened his grip on my hair, pulling my face toward his groin to plunge his erection deeper down my throat and causing me to gag. He didn't relent.
"Give me your throat," he commanded. He's plenty authoritative without needing to raise his voice.
Eyes watering, I quickly tried to adjust, shifting to angle my head into a better position. The constriction in my throat abated enough that I no longer choked.
"Good boy," he sighed. He bobbed my head up and down, lazily forcing himself in and out of my throat. "Get it wet--you're going to need the extra lubrication."
It's Pavlovian, how his words conjure memories of the feeling of him inside me, of him making love to me; my hole gave an involuntary twitch in response. I took extra care to please him, making sure that his glans hit that soft spot at the back of my palate as it slid into my throat. I wanted to satisfy him; I wanted his affection.
"Alright, that's enough." He stopped me.
I looked up at him, hopeful.
"Get up."
Glad to be giving my knees a break, I climbed to my feet. Almost immediately, he spun me around and pushed me onto our bed. I braced myself for his tongue.
I never felt his tongue.
Whenever we'd fuck, Julien would take particular pleasure in opening me up with his tongue, making me squirm and slicking my insides with his spit. He'd take his time, teasing me until I was practically incoherent as I begged him to just fuck me already, at which point he'd finally give me what I wanted, what I needed, what I've been needing.
Not this time.
Instead, he spread my cheeks, and I felt cool lubricant drizzled onto my hole. He shoved his fingers into me, roughly, applying the bare minimum amount to my interior. I gritted my teeth, trying to will the discomfort away, trying to acclimate myself; if he noticed my discomfort, he made no mention.
Too soon, his fingers were replaced with his endowment. He's girthy--it's one of his many physical traits that I've always enjoyed--and I was fully impaled on him quicker than I'd've liked. Still, I was hungry for him--I'd been hungry for him all this time, for some semblance of normalcy, for some intimation that things between us were still fine. I needed it, and he'd been letting me starve. So, as he began to fuck me, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on finding that familiar pleasure.
Intercourse with someone you love is different--it's not just sex. The physical intimacy is heightened by the psychological connection, and it's something that Julien and I shared for years. Two becomes more than just the sum of its parts. The keening inside me, the need for him within me, they're satisfied only when he makes love to me, when we consummate our relationship; he makes me whole.
But, this felt different.
It wasn't just the position; obviously, he's fucked me doggy-style innumerable times. I tried to pinpoint the source of this dissonance. I could feel his hands on my hips, steadying me as he pounded away, rhythmic. Why was I feeling doubtful? What was there to doubt? Here I was, on all fours for my husband, who's an absolute stud by all measures. Maybe I was overthinking it. Anyone would throw themselves at the chance to sleep with him; I've always known that I was lucky to have him.
Still, I couldn't figure out what was bugging me. All I knew, in that moment, was that I felt like nothing more than a hole.
He slapped my ass as he fucked me. It was purely animalistic, the way he pumped my hole. He was giving me deep strokes, and it felt like all eight inches of him were splitting me in half.
The pleasure was there, sort of. It just wasn't the same.
I couldn't help thinking back to what I had seen that other day. I pictured Julien atop that twink, who had begged to be bred in this very same bed.
Fuck.
It was like a lightbulb switched on in my mind: Julien was wearing a condom while fucking me.
We don't use protection; we had done away with rubbers years ago when we first began dating because we were exclusive.
"Babe," I said, apprehensive, "are you wearing a rubber?"
"What?" He paused. "Oh. Yeah, I am."
I reached back to grip his cock, feeling for the telltale latex. Sure enough, there it was.
"Is... is everything okay?" I asked.
"Of course it is." His reply was smooth.
I hesitated. "Well... do you want to take it off?"
"Nah." He slapped my ass again. "Get back down."
I laid back down, my heart pounding and my mind racing. He resumed fucking me, careless of my internal turmoil; he was just trying to get off.
I wondered why he didn't want to do it raw. Bareback sex between us always felt incredibly tender; this, on the other hand, felt utterly perfunctory. I wanted to ask him why, but I didn't want to make a big deal out of it and risk turning him off; it was already too long since we last had sex.
"Babe," Julien said, breaking my thoughts. "Do you want my load?"
"Yes, of course I do," I said, promptly.
"Yeah? You want me to take the rubber off?"
"Yes, please."
"Beg for it."
I started to feel needy. "Please, take it off. Take off the condom. Please."
"Again. Beg for it." His strokes began to go deep again.
"Please, Julien. I want it raw. Please," I pleaded, groaning as he hammered me.
He laughed, but made no move to peel it off. "Tell me you love me."
The condom-dulled sensation of him inside me only further pronounced the barrier between us, more than merely physical. It dawned on me that it wasn't just the rubber that was making things between us feel different.
"Please, Julien. I love you. I love you so much."
Judging by how his thrusts intensified, I could tell that he was getting close.
"Julien, please, I love you." As I said that, he reached around to cover my mouth with his hand, stifling the rest of my begging.
"Fuck!" He pushed into me one last time and began to spasm.
The condom was still on.
When his orgasm finally ended, he let go of me and rolled off.
"I'm going to shower," he said, walking away. As he headed towards the bathroom, he peeled off the condom and tossed it aside.
I laid there, prostrate, listening to the sound of running water coming from the shower. I hadn't climaxed--he hadn't finished me off like he usually would. I stared at the now-filled condom on the floor, at his seed within, reflecting on how he used to give me his load, how he didn't give it to me in this moment... how he had so willingly given it to that twink. I thought about how tender Julien was with him, how tender Julien no longer was with me--he hadn't even kissed me.
There's familiar pang in my chest.