A Sexual Yin and Yang

It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex; she just didn’t like sex with him.
For years she had thought that she was somewhat frigid, that her libido was shattered, that she didn’t function sexually. She had thought that she didn’t need sex, that she didn’t actually enjoy sex and couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about.

A friend had told her that when she got married, the amount of sex would reduce. She was almost relieved to hear that. She was indifferent to sex and could quite contentedly live without it.
Another friend told her how she and her partner revitalised their sex by watching porn movies together but she couldn’t really see the point. If she didn’t enjoy sex, what possible purpose would there be in watching other people have sex?

She stoically continued to have sex but it was a duty rather than a pleasure. It was mundane, immature sex. It was bland and characterless. It was dry and empty but she didn’t necessarily know that at the time.

It had its purpose. Being the good church-going person that she was, sex was now about procreation. The only point to sex was now procreation. It was a means to an end, and once conception had taken place, it seemed a beautiful excuse to exempt herself from sex for the duration of the pregnancy. He didn’t seem to object to this. He never once attempted to fuck her whilst she was carrying his children.

And years later, it was still the same.
The kiss first thing in the morning, not a gentle kiss, not an aggressive one, just a signal that he was aroused. Not on the mouth, but on the cheek. If it was on the mouth it was brief and certainly not tongues. That was her decision, not his. The kisses were pretty crap. They were sloppy and ill-considered. They didn’t feel good. It wasn’t his fault, he just wasn’t very good at kissing, and she had never felt aroused by his kissing. It had never been the prerequisite to full, penetrative sex.
Or maybe it had been. Maybe she should have paid attention to the kiss many years before. Maybe the kiss is an indication of what the sex might be like. She’d never thought about that. Are good kissers automatically good lovers?

And so it went on. The kiss followed by a movement of the hand. The insipid tracing of the body, first towards the breasts, rubbing them, avoiding the nipple, then just fingering it, followed by an attempt to kiss it.
For some insane reason, he thought that blowing was good. He blew his breath on her tits, almost as though attempting to anaesthetise them before he took it in his mouth. It left her shuddering and finding his kissing them unwelcome. Once kissed, the boobs were then fondled, grabbed whilst the kisses moved towards the neck, to the alleged sensual area around the base of the ear. It didn’t sensitise her.
And then the hand would wander towards her cunt.
A single digit was inserted, first quite gently. Then it would move around, just once to check the moistness. And then it would just go in and out and in and out, ridiculously quickly, as though the speed of this single digit being inserted would be the key to a pleasurable experience.

There was no exploration of her cunt, no attempt to see if there was any effect of this finger rogering, just some innate perception that it was this that made women cum.
Only it didn’t. It was more like an endurance test than an arousal method.

And then he’d go down on her, and do that dreadful blowing thing again, only this time on her pubes, and then he would dive his tongue inside her with that rapid action once more.
And then the cock would go in. Just as the finger and tongue had before; quick motions, done for one purpose only, to get him to orgasm.
Thankfully, it never lasted too long. It was over in less than a minute on most occasions, and once he had climaxed, she could extract him from her body and relax post-coitally as she knew she should.

And that was that. And this is that. Once a week, once a month, often less than that at certain times of her life.
If this was what sex was going to be like for the rest of her life, is it any wonder that she was disinterested and reluctant?

She’d tried other things occasionally. She didn’t always lie there like a zombie. She’d read books, she’d seen the odd soft porn imagery, she had her instinct in tact.
She held his cock and rubbed it. She often gave him a blow job and held his balls in her hand but it was more out of a desire to arouse him than doing anything for her. She didn’t actually like it. Still doesn’t.
She climbed on top of him when he’d finished blowing on her cunt and had ridden him so that at the very least her clitoris could be sensitised but none of it made any difference really.
She never came.

Of course she did cum, when it was just her lying in bed.
She’d always had the propensity to fantasise, and the fantasies led to masturbation, but only of the clitoris, and often without her fingers going anywhere near her sexual organs.
It was an immature wank but effective.
She’d learned at a relatively early age how to get herself to orgasm. She would stuff a pillow or a discarded piece of clothing between her legs, and she would press down hard. Then she would release herself from the pressure and return it instantaneously. After four or five of these pressure visits, she would feel the orgasm rising, until eventually her whole body was rigid in its effort to cum. As the orgasm took over, she would tense up to feel its complete effect and then she would flop down, remove the pillow and simply enjoy the sensuality that she had provided for herself.
But the sensuality and the orgasms always came this way. It never entered her mind to push her own fingers into her cunt. It had never done anything for her when he did it, so why would fingering herself have the desired effect. Anyway, wasn’t a vaginal orgasm just an urban myth?

The pillow fucks were sometimes done without thought in mind, but the best self-fucks were the ones when she was thinking about others; not usually people she knew, though there were times when friends came to mind. They were mainly about people that she didn’t know, people that she had seen on the television; actors, sportsmen, even news anchormen!
The chosen object of fantasy usually lasted for some months. Some of them lasted for years; the same person at the centre of her wanking.
By this time though, she had convinced herself that sex wasn’t an important part of her life, almost turning a blind eye to this masturbation methodology. That wasn’t real sex. She didn’t equate that to her sexuality. She didn’t see it for what it was; the replacement, the necessity to keep her sexually alive.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t love him. She did. They had many pleasurable moments. She used to enjoy lying there after he was satisfied, revelling in his bliss that became part of hers.
Like a dutiful wife, she had reverted to the decades before her existence, and had pleasured him and that was the most important thing. In some ludicrous assimilation to self-sacrifice, his sexuality was far more important than hers. Whatever her needs were supposed to be, they were insignificant and by this time, she had convinced herself that she basically had a very low libido, almost to the point of non-existence. Even when friends explained the quantity and quality of their own sexual lives, she dismissed it as being fine for them but it wasn’t something that was important to her. She was content and that was all that mattered. The fact that she could not be aroused by another human being was just part of her life and she didn’t mourn or grieve for her sexuality. It was just the way things were. It is just the way things are.
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Can you possibly understand what this is like? Have you got any idea how bloody difficult it is to have sex in this way? Try as she might, with all the potential of her imagination, she cannot enjoy it. There are times when she literally grits her teeth because it is unbearable to experience this inadequacy. She’s thought it over and over. She’s considered pretending that there is another person fucking her, but that doesn’t work, and she doesn’t want to soil memories of others with this blandness. She’s thought that as a sexual woman, she should be able to enjoy rather than endure any form of sex. Surely having bad sex is better than having no sex at all?
Absolutely not!
Bad sex makes the desire for good sex even more alluring. Bad sex makes the body and the soul want to scream in annoyance. Bad sex is not worth the bother other than to keep up appearances.
And she has tried to make it better. She has tried to bring her memories and experiences of others to the marital bed but it just doesn’t work.
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It wasn’t that she loved sex; she just loved having sex with him.
For years she had thought that she was somewhat frigid, that her libido was shattered, that she didn’t function sexually. She had thought that she didn’t need sex, that she didn’t actually enjoy sex and couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about.

And then she had been awakened from a very hideous dream.

It had started with the simplest of kisses, not even a sexual one; just a goodbye at the end of an evening, with a kiss on either cheek with the gentlest of touches on the elbow.
She’d driven away knowing that something was happening but it was suppressed deep down within her subconscious.

It continued months later with another kiss, only this time there was no disguising the sexuality of the moment. The burning sensation in her cunt at the moment where tongues collided made her realise that her libido was not redundant after all. There was some sexual life in her but maybe it was just the illegitimacy of the moment. Maybe it was just arousal at doing something that was indiscreet and would be frowned upon by others. Maybe the arousal was just some sort of rebellion.

But her libido had been awoken and it was now at the forefront of her mind.
In the instances when he kissed her, she could feel it throbbing between her legs. At the moment that he placed his hand on her breast for the first time, she realised that she would readily invite another touch, not shield his hand away in the hope that he would move and recognise her discomfort from being touched in that area. There was no discomfort. For the first time in her life, she wanted to have her tits fondled. She wanted him to tweak her nipples and arouse them from their flatbed.

When he first placed his fingers inside her, he must have assumed that she was an extremely libidinous woman. Her labia were dripping with anticipation; her cunt was erect in an instant. He must have thought that this was a woman who knew how to invite pleasure into her pussy, that her wetness symbolised the fact that she was a deeply sexual woman, who knew what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
When he first placed his fingers inside her, he didn’t stab at her. He explored every nook and cranny of her. He pushed through the initial folds, he tickled the inner labia. He swept his finger gently over every section of her before reaching in further to the hibernating G-Spot, where he accurately exerted just the right amount of pressure without force or over-exertion.
She came in an instant, surprising herself at the droplets of cum that seemed to burst forth.
She tried to disguise her surprise but he had already seen it, even in the darkness, even without looking at her astonished face.

And then they had more sex, penetrative sex, expected and desired by both of them.
They’d waited for a long time. The anticipation had been huge in time as well as thought.

It was worth the wait.

At the moment of penetration, she was catapulted into another world; a world that was to be her secret, their secret for many years. It was a world of passion and sexual excitement that she had no idea she was capable of experiencing.

He must have thought that initial sex was pretty bland. She was stunned and it must have come across in her actions or inactions.
She was mesmerised into a hypnotic state. She had had her mind as well as her body blown to smithereens, and poor him; he’d just had sex with a woman that he cared for, a woman that he had found attractive and had got to know – but the sex can’t have been that alluring.

It had started with a kiss. He’d lain her down on the settee as he crouched on the floor beside her. He’d reached his arm over to her face and had folded his palm across her face as he kissed her sweetly, and then he had opened her mouth to glide his tongue inside as hers moulded into his.
He’d rapidly undressed himself, down to his white knickers that erupted with his hardness. She noticed the darkened patch where his lubricant had seeped from his cock. There were no inhibitions in him letting her see his excitement.
He removed her skirt and unfastened her blouse. He grabbed her tits whilst continually kissing her with a passion unknown. He lifted her breasts from their hiding place and brushed her nipples, exacting his fingers to its point without tugging, without pressure.

Without realising, it was he that was now lying on the settee with her straddling herself above him.
He’d removed her panties and was now fingering her cunt as she knelt over him with a rigid back, enjoying the exploration. She gushed an extensive amount of liquid from her body, concerned that she had just pissed over him, shying away in the depths of her inhibitions.
He said nothing, just appreciated her cum without words.

He moved her away and pulled the cushions to the floor. He stripped himself from his pants and lay her down, moving her legs aside so that he could look at the cunt that he had fingered for so many months. In the light of day, he could see her pink anticipation as he clamoured into the waiting condom.
He slid inside her. She was astonished that such a big cock could reach inside her almost unnoticed. As soon as she realised that he was within her, her body shook at the wonderment.
It had been a long wait.

Covered in rubbery revoltingness, he didn’t cum inside her. He just fucked her perfectly until she had her own orgasm. Through her cum, he continued to fuck her until he needed to cum himself.
He removed the condom and rubbed her cunt. He continued to kiss her as he grabbed his cock and it was fairly soon that he was shooting his stuff on the floor between them.

It was over a year before they discarded the condoms. What was the point in them, apart from the obvious? She’d never wanted him to wear them in the first place. It was his insistence. She was far too flighty to worry about the health risks of not having them.
When he suggested that they could have sex without them, she was astonished and delighted. She wanted to really feel his cock in direct contact with her cunt. She wanted their flesh to rub together, to arouse one another, to belong in one another.
The moment they connected she came. Her mind was insistent upon that.

It was a few months later that she decided that another form of contraception was required. She wanted to feel his spunk inside her. She wanted him to have the ultimate experience with her; that ability to relax completely without worry of escaping sperm.

He spunked in her gloriously, and she loved to feel inside herself to savour that gloriously gel-like texture. She still loves to feel his spunk inside her.
To have the opportunity to cum together was mind-blowing. That he clearly cared for her and that she reciprocated was enough for her. She no longer wanted to be the best or the priority or indeed the only one that he fucked. She just wanted to experience this sex as often and for as long as possible.

She grew in her sexuality. She experienced new things. She explored her body and her sexual mind with him and without.

She loves her sexuality now. She loves feeling horny and urgent. She loves expressing her sexuality in kisses and hugs, in words and in talking, in unspoken moments and in demands for a fuck.
She loves the fact that she has become this spunky woman who can spray her cum out of her cunt, soaking his torso or his balls dependant on where he is when she orgasms.
She loves to finger herself, even fist herself with him looking on. She loves to wank and watch him wank too, seeing his fucking, enormous cock extend itself almost in time with every additional finger that she pushes into her own body. She loves to extract her fist from her cunt so that he can see the gaping hole and the erection within her as she anticipates his cock.
She loves it when he climbs on top of her and directs his cock to the very places that either he or she have just been fingering, knowing that this collision is going to create the cataract effect that both of them know is imminent.

She wants more and in wanting more, she wants it for him as much as herself. She loves to extend her sexuality. She loves to excite him with her fascination in other women’s bodies. She loves looking at excited cunts and the curvature of an enticing pair of tits. She loves watching another woman’s arousal; at her fingering herself. She adores seeing other women take cocks into their cunts and their mouths, devouring it as she devours his.
She adores watching him piss and his adoration in watching her piss. She loves having sex lying down in bed or riding his cock. She loves having her panties removed in urgent desire in the middle of the day, in the middle of the kitchen.
She loves being fucked in places that she’d never considered before because she had never considered the urgency of sex.

She wants him to explore her body more. She wants him to want her. She wants him to want to finger her elsewhere. She wants to let other people watch them fuck and get aroused themselves and then she wants to watch them being aroused, and hopefully them fucking one another.

And she wants to lie in bed with him, making love, loving one another with all the subtlety and sensation of being together, gently, carefully, intimately.

And she has had to ask herself whether she loves sex or loves it with him, whether she loves him or whether she loves the sex.

She knows the answer to that and so does he.
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Can you possibly understand what this is like? Have you got any idea how bloody difficult it is not to have sex in this way?
Have you really got any comprehension of how life changing this has been, how fundamental the sexuality is, how the love of sex and the love of another is inseparable?
To contemplate the idea that any sex would compensate for the lack of this sex is incomprehensible. She can finger fuck herself and that is divine but it makes her want him more. She can have sex with others but it makes her long for this sex more.

She says she has a secret life. He says she has a secret life. Is it any wonder that she sometimes doesn’t want it to be secret? Shouldn’t it be down to people like her to educate the world by explaining what has happened to her? Shouldn’t others understand that this sort of sex doesn’t come along by physicality alone and that there are a multitude of reasons beyond the sexual togetherness that makes this happen?
Should she have to have bad sex because she cannot have the good sex that she wants and needs?
Absolutely not!
And yet, this has to be.
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It wasn’t that she loved sex or was indifferent to sex; she didn’t know whether her love of sex was wholly linked to her love for him.
For years she had thought that she was somewhat frigid, that her libido was shattered, that she didn’t function sexually. She had thought that she didn’t need sex, that she didn’t actually enjoy sex and couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about.

He’d eradicated that. He’d made her see sex for the significance that it was. He’d enabled her to embrace her sexuality, explore its depths, untie its enforced societal and personal boundaries. He’d opened her mind and her soul. He’d released a sexual spirituality that had either been dormant or hadn’t previously existed.
He’d played his part in creating this reformed and regenerated woman.

She doesn’t mean to be alarming or antagonistic in saying that she is unsure of whether this newfound sexual excitement is related to her feelings for him. She is genuinely fascinated by this question in a non-attached way.

This is why she would consider having sex with another person; which is why she wanted to have sex with another woman. Then of course, he was involved in that too and she knows that part of that was all about exciting him.
She still wants to have sex with another woman. She would love to share sex with him and another woman. She would delight in seeing him sexually aroused by another pair of tits and another cunt to be stimulated by. She even thinks he needs to have another cunt, with or without her being present, only she’d prefer it if she was involved too, or at the least if he would share his experiences with her.

She doesn’t want or need to have sex with anyone else. Why would she? According to her, she has the pinnacle of sex with him. Yet she is intrigued as to whether she could enjoy sex with someone else, whether sex in itself is something that she rather likes.
She experiences bad sex which in some ways reiterates the belief that sex in itself, as its own force is not what she wants. When she has been without his sex, she cannot just have sex and feel in any way appeased or placated. If anything, the other sex leads to greater frustration at not having the sex that she wants, that they both want.
And yet, the idea of having sex with another person, without the emotional attachments and the strength of absolute intimacy, is a prospect that she feels she ought to consider.

She wrote recently about the fact that when people separate, they should be mindful of the fact that they are missing the sex as much as they are missing the person. It might even be that they are missing the sex more than they are missing the person, or that they are missing the sex and don’t really miss the person at all.
Right now, that is not her experience and it doesn’t take a permanent separation to feel this. Even a week of separation can make one miss the person and with that, miss the sex too.

She wants to have sex with another person because she wants to further embrace her sexuality. She wants to have good old, uncomplicated sex to see if she actually likes being fucked.

But most importantly, right now, she wants this as part of a shared experience with him. She wants to be able to talk to him about it. She wants to be able to impart her thoughts. She actually wants him to be watching her have sex with another person almost as much as she wants to watch him having sex with another person.

In some ways, she doesn’t need to know. She already does know that she has become a sexualised woman who happily embraces her sexuality. She knows that she is aroused when she looks at porn sites. She knows that she is sexual because of this.
She knows that she enjoys a wank. She knows that she can write about sex and can feel the pressure of a bulging cunt without any specific provocation from him, well not directly at least.
She knows that she is a sexual being and that this sexuality is a fundamental need and desire in her life.

And because she knows, she wants to go further. She wants them to enjoy each other’s sexuality to its peak; a peak that changes and dances to a myriad of tunes, a peak that can be reached in the togetherness of sexuality and in the exploration of it individually.

He knows and she knows that sex is complicated, that sex is complicated specifically by the fact that it is not just a physical act, that a desire to fuck another is fraught with darkness and light. Accepting that and acknowledging it is extremely important.
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It wasn’t that she loved sex; she just loved having sex with him.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex; she just didn’t feel it was as good as it should be.
It wasn’t that she wanted sex with others; she just felt it could be enjoyable and it would open her mind and her sexuality, and it might………………………..
She doesn’t want to finish that sentence. She will do when the time is right.

For years she had thought that she was somewhat frigid, that her libido was shattered, that she didn’t function sexually. She had thought that she didn’t need sex, that she didn’t actually enjoy sex and couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about.

She was wrong.
And now she knows.