Shy Young Wife

Call me paranoid, or whatever you please, but my wife’s
“volunteer work” was really about sex all along, and I
knew it from the beginning. She went on about self-
actualization and needing to “discover herself” and to
do something about society’s problems. And I went
along, reluctantly – unhappily. I knew this was really
all about us. It was about sex. I knew my marriage was
in trouble.

Problem is, what do you do about it? My brother and my
best friend had both warned me. They told me Pamela was
a brainy, sexy, spoiled rotten bitch (“just like Gail,”
my brother warned – a reference to his wife’s sister,
who had left her husband for a professor soon after she
started as a part-time grad student).

Lately, they said, she’d been showing all the signs of
“turning hippy.” What they meant was that she had begun
sheepishly defending the antiwar protesters, had
expressed curiosity about pot, and had taken to wearing
less makeup and letting her hair fall loose and full.

Moreover, they said, she seemed to be bored at family
gatherings, which my Dad regarded as the very most
disturbing sign. Unlike my brother, who had never liked
Pamela (although he’d made it clear he found her sex-
ually desirable) Dad had a genuine affection for her,
and seemed to think of her as the daughter he never
had. She returned his warm feelings, too – even when
she started to get strange.

Naturally, I told them they were crazy. She had a right
to her own opinions, didn’t she? (Well? Didn’t she?)
And, I added, I happened to really like her new look.
What’s more, I lied, our sex life was better than ever.

Why did I say that? It was completely out of character
for me to even mention our sex life, for one thing. And
for another, our sex life was a source of total con-
fusion to me. My wife had never, to my knowledge,
anyway, had an orgasm, and she had steadfastly refused
to discuss it, brushing the topic aside on the two
occasions when I’d asked her about it.

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“What difference does it make?” she’d said on our
honeymoon. “You were great and I think you’re probably
the sexiest man alive.”

And later, once when we were tipsy following a New
Year’s party, we made love for much longer than usual.
Probably due to the alcohol I’d consumed, I’d been able
to continue without climaxing for probably twice the
time of our usual brief couplings.

“Did you…?” I asked as we lay there afterward, the
room spinning just slightly.

“Did I what?” she answered, her tongue as thick with
booze as mine.

“You know … did you have an orgasm?”

She gave a long sigh… “How the hell am I supposed to
know?”

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With that she rolled over and almost immediately
started snoring softly.

So that was that.

And lately, things had just gotten stranger. She always
– repeat: ALWAYS refused when I made the first move.
Always. But occasionally, just lately, she would
initiate the first contact and each time, it was some-
thing strange.

The first time, she came to bed late and snuggled up
behind me, her chest against my back. I woke up about
halfway and thought little of it. After all, she was
wearing the chin-to-floor flannel nighty that usually
signaled a chaste bedding.

But as I drifted back to sleep, I felt her lips pressed
to the back of my neck, and her hand slid down into my
pajamas. She is a lot shorter than me, so she had to
scoot down for her hand to reach my penis. As she did
so, she pressed her cheek against my back. I could feel
her heat through the material of my pajama top.

I tried to turn to face her, but she held my slack
penis and resisted with a murmured “No…”

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I lay there blinking as she pressed up against me, her
hand on my penis for a while. I just listened to our
breathing, wondering if she’d gone to sleep.

Eventually, her hand began to squeeze and stroke me.
Ineptly, at first. Not really sure what to do with a
soft penis, I guess. But as I began to swell in her
hand, her breathing began to grow rougher, along with
mine. And soon she was masturbating me… stroking my
cock rhythmically – a slow, maddening slide of her
fingertips along the underide of my cock, with her
thumb pressed to the upper side. The loose skin slid
over my shaft under her fingers and she milked me
insistently.

Soon I was nearing orgasm, and I was frankly embar-
rassed. Did she really mean to make me do this?
Shouldn’t I at least get a tissue or a towel or some-
thing? My years of masturbation with a wash cloth and
soap came back to me… was she going to make me squirt
on the sheets?

“Honey, I’m going to…”

“Shh!! I’ll stop,” she whispered harshly, resisting my
second attempt to roll over to face her.”

She squeezed me harder and I felt her taut body strain-
ing against me as she held onto my shoulder with her
free hand. We were both rocking with her effort. I was
both aroused to the point of fever, and deeply humili-
ated.

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I came hard. When she felt the first spurt, she
loosened her grip, but continued to stroke me even
faster.

What I would have wanted, I couldn’t ask for. I would
have wanted her to stop stroking altogether and just
hold onto the base of my cock, pulling back as hard as
possible, so hard that the skin sheath would distort
the shape of my cockhead, and hold me like that, very
still. I had done it many times, aroused myself nearly
to orgasm, then just pulled back on my cock and held
still to wait for the explosion.

But this, although physically not what I’d have re-
quested had I been less uptight, was in all other ways
an extraordinary sexual experience.

Several heavy spurts soaked the sheets on my side of
the bed as my wife’s hand flew over my cock. I thought
I heard her chuckle to herself against my back as I
came … and whisper something.

Not sure, I whispered hoarsely “what…?” but she never
answered. I tried one more time to turn to her, but she
silently resisted. Wouldn’t have it.

A while later, I felt her climb out of bed. Looking
back, I think she probably went somewhere in the house
to satisfy herself. Also looking back, I suppose she
was thinking of “him” the whole time.

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Another time, as she came to bed after a night of her
“volunteer work,” she turned off the nightlight in the
hall that we usually kept on for our daughter. She
quietly closed our bedroom door, as I continued to
feign sleep. I heard her tiptoe to the windows and
carefully, almost silently, pull the shades and
curtains shut. She paused by the dresser to turn the
alarm clock to the wall, the final source of light in
the room. Total darkness.

She found her way over to my side of the bed and knelt
down. I felt her hand go up under the covers, and
directly to the waist of my pajamas. Faintly, I could
smell beer and cigarette smoke … she’d gone out for
a beer with the other volunteers, as she often did.
But had she been smoking? Totally out of character.

Her hand found me and I pretended to be coming out of
sleep as she began to fondle me, her fingers cool and
dry. I reached down to touch her in the dark, but her
free hand found mine and she pushed me away silently.

Before I was completely hard, she pulled down the
sheets and fished my cock out through the fly of my
pajamas. I inhaled deeply – smell of her perfume,
mixed with the smell of whatever pub she’d gone to
actually excited me, and by the time she got me freed,
I was hard.

Then, to my complete surprise, I felt her lips and
tongue on the head of my cock, at first tentative, but
almost immediately her tongue began to swirl over my
flesh and her full lips opened to take me in.

She had occasionally teased my cock with a kiss or a
lick when we were dating, but had never actually taken
me into her mouth. I’d subtly hinted that I would like
more, but nothing doing.

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But now, my wife was kneeling by our bed in the dark-
ness tonguing me with real urgency and, from the sound
of her breathing and her occasional, involuntary
sounds, she was hungry for me.

When I reached down with both hands to touch her hair,
she batted me away again, but continued to suck,
actually moving her head over me as she took more of
my length into her mouth.

Never, never, ever had she done this, or anything even
close. Each time she plunged downward to take in more
of me, she moaned deeply – was it effort, or satis-
faction?

Inevitably, I began to moan. Usually, I wasn’t at all
verbal in bed, but THIS – well, I began to babble I
suppose.

“Oh, Pammy, yesssss … oh, god … please, yes … oh,
god, Pammy…”

Almost roughly, her hand flew to my mouth and covered
it! I was reduced to stifled moans as her hand left my
face.

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Soon after, and just as I began to feel my orgasm
approaching, she pulled away from my cock and there
was a pause of what felt like forever, but was probably
about thirty seconds, before I heard her make a sound
I’d never heard. It was somewhere between a moan and a
squeal and her breathing was ragged and loud as she
keened from her spot on the floor by our bed.

“Are you alright? Honey? Sweetie…”

As I began to fumble for the bedside light switch, I
heard her softly leave the room and close the door
behind her.

My cock hard and my balls aching, I fantasized going
after her, demanding – well – demanding SOMETHING! An
explanation? An orgasm? What? I briefly fantasized just
going after her and raping her, but I put the thought
out of my mind. Surely she must know what she was doing
to me … surely she knew how unfair this was, and how
strange it all was too.

*****

Hindsight can be comforting or sickening. As I look
back on those days, it is indeed a comfort to be able
to make sense of what was going on. At the time, I was
mostly just confused and angry.

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Pamela was struggling with something, though – some-
thing she couldn’t possibly have explained to me,
because she didn’t even come close to understanding it
herself. Looking back, I now know that she was as
tormented in some ways as I was – at least at first.

Pamela continued for some months to be completely un-
predictable. Distant, quiet, and unaffectionate for
days at a time, then all of a sudden, she’d do some-
thing so sexually exciting that I couldn’t believe it
was the same woman.

One night when I came home from a poker game, I found
my wife in our bed, lying on her tummy, with several
quite new copies of a popular sex magazine on the
pillow beside her. Only her reading lamp was on, and
the soft, long curves of her slender body was the very
picture of feminine beauty. She had only her panties
on, and she had one hand under her body, obviously hard
at work in her panties.

In her free hand, she held one of the pocket-sized
magazines, with one finger apparently holding her
place. I thought she must not have heard me come in,
but she almost immediately proved me wrong.

With a deep, anguished moan, she let go of the maga-
zine, and pulled her hand free of her panties. She
kept her face turned away, gripping a pillow in one
hand and reaching back to pull the crotch of her
panties aside with the other. There was a light sheen
of sweat on her skin, and she seemed to glow in the
relatively dim light of the little lamp.

“Do me, Danny. Do it to me.”

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It took a moment for me to find my voice. I was feeling
mellow from a few beers – for a brief moment I felt
vaguely ill, then sort of dizzy.

“Pam, I’m sorry, I just…”

“Don’t talk! Please, Danny … please just do it. Do
it Now! Don’t talk.”

By this time, I had already realized that nearly every
time she presented one of these “episodes”, she asked
me to be silent. And I had begun to understand why: my
voice would spoil whatever fantasy she was having.
Again she said it, still in the harsh, urgent whisper
I’d come to associate with these encounters:

“Now. Do it now or go away.”

I dropped my jacket, kicked off my shoes and undid my
slacks as I approached the bed. I got on my knees be-
tween her thighs and began to caress her ass … god,
that ass. Still makes my heart beat faster just think-
ing about it, and it’s been years!

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I slid my hands up her thighs to the firm, smooth fruit
of her ass and began to massage her, but she reached
back – still without looking back, her face turned
away from me – and pushed my hands away.

“No! Just do it, you bastard. Just do it … please.
Oh god, please.”

I probably knelt there blinking for a few seconds …
hurt, but so aroused I could have passed out. My hands
shook and my heart pounded. I looked down and saw her
sex open and wet from what she had been doing when I
came in… and then I just plunged my fingers into her,
two or three of them, screwing them into her as I
pressed down on the small of her back.

She made a deep, raspy noise as she pressed a pillow
to her face and I felt her pussy gripping my fingers.
I roughly withdrew them, and her ass rose as if to
snatch them back.

My cock was in position already, and when her ass rose,
I pushed into her. She pressed both hands against the
mattress as if to do a push-up, and her upper body
began to rise. I astonished myself by roughly pushing
her back down with the flat of my hand between her
shoulder blades.

She gave a little yelp of surprise, and when I took
her small hips in my hands and yanked her up to me,
she seemed to briefly struggle before beginning to
writhe against me.

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I pressed into her as deep as I could and when I was
all the way in, her hands came up and back, and she
crossed her wrists over the small of her back.

It seems silly, I suppose, but when she did that, I
immediately began to come. One of her hands whipped
around to her clit and in a matter of seconds, her
muscles were gripping me again in what I now know was
her orgasm.

She fell forward and began to sob. So did I – releasing
only a small bit of the tension and confusion of those
months. She didn’t say a word as we drifted off to
sleep.

When I awoke a little while later, with my trousers
still around my knees, she wasn’t in the bed. As usual,
she’d gone off somewhere else in the house. I went back
to sleep.

I believe it was about a week after that night that she
came into the library where I was going over the mail
and asked softly if we could talk. She dimmed the
lights, asking me to sit in my “favorite” chair, a
leather wingback. She stood behind me.

“Danny, I owe you an explanation. I know I do. I’ve
been a terrible wife to you lately and you deserve
some kind of explanation…”

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I got up to go to her, to hold her, to tell her it was
alright, but she turned away.

“Danny, I can’t do this if you’re looking at me – I
just can’t. Please. Sit down. Let me do this my way.”

Suddenly I knew what I was about to hear. She was going
to leave me. I felt like the whole room was coming down
on me. God, I loved her so! This beautiful, warm, sweet
person that I had married – who had chosen me over so
many others that had pursued her. I was losing her.
This was the night.

I sat on the edge of my chair and held my head in my
hands, staring down at the carpet as the lump in my
throat spread and numbed my body. Anger and grief
washed over me and mixed somewhere in my stomach …
but I kept control.

“I’ve been changing. You know I have. I … we … it’s
not us. I mean, it isn’t you. It’s me. It’s not some-
thing I can really …” she slammed the back of my
chair with her small fist. “Damn! This is so stupid …
Now do I …”

She must have heard my heavy breathing … or maybe I
was crying. I really don’t know. I was still sitting
there with my head down and she came around the chair
and stood in front of me and took my head in her hands,
pressing my face to her tummy. My arms went around her
and held her tight around her hips and again we cried.
I still hadn’t seen her face since she came into the
room. I held her to me tightly and I heard her say:

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“You just have to be patient with me, Danny. Please.
Please, Danny, try and understand. There’s something
happening that I can’t explain – something inside of
me. Please give me time, Danny. Please…”

Her hands held my head to her tightly, her fingers in
my hair and on my neck, my ears. Perversely, I suppose,
I became aroused. I began to press my face down into
the front of her dress, into her mons. She held my head
there for a moment, and then pressed forward as I
pressed my face to her.

Now, in all our married life, oral sex had been
entirely out of the question. I’ve already described
her minimal oral flirtations before we were married.
But cunnilingus was particularly taboo.

And I must admit that it was as much my problem as
hers. The thought of going down on a woman seemed
somehow less than masculine to me – sort of demeaning.
And actually, I felt the same about her going down on
me.

I mean, I wanted it, but it seemed wrong to me. And
the one time I had playfully moved to kiss her “down
there” during our first year of marriage, she was
genuinely shocked, crying out my name, and pushing me
away. It was, as I recall, the abrupt end of what had
been a rather promising foreplay session.

But just then, in the half dark of the study, my face
hot with tears, I wanted to bury my face – my *self*
– in her sex. I breathed in sharply, and imagined I
could smell her through the material of her panties
and skirt.

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With my hands on her ass, I pressed harder against her,
and I felt her press back, a small circular motion of
her hips that ground her mons against my nose.

“No … no…” she whispered, and I recognized that it
was *that* whisper – the strange, troubled, urgent
whisper I had lately come to associate with the strange
intense sex she’d been initiating.

“No … please…” she kept whispering as she pulled
her pelvis back and pushed me away, her small hands on
my shoulders.

Again, I briefly imagined forcing myself on her, making
her give herself to me on MY terms, but I didn’t.

Maybe I should have, I really don’t know. After all,
in those days, no one had ever even *heard* the phrase
“no means no.”

In fact, it wasn’t at all clear that it was even
legally *possible* for a man to rape his own wife. But
I let her push me back, at least partly because – get
this – I wanted to see her face, I wanted to kiss her
softly and make her smile as I had done so often over
the years, and hold her and tell her everything would
be ok. For a moment I imagined that would happen.

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But she kept her face down and as I lay back in my
chair, she knelt down, her loose hair hiding her face.
Her hands slid over my thighs as she settled down
between my spread knees, and although it had never
happened before, I knew what would happen next.

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