ASL Part 7

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“I’ve been waiting,” I said, sitting up in bed.
He raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Why don’t we…” I became mute.
“Now?” He looks at his wrist watch.
“I’m up for it,” I say, a little breathless considering I’ve spent much time toying my pussy.
“What’s that sound?” he asked, stepping inside the room.
“I needed a little extra,” I said, hoping he’d raise the sheet or have an instant hard on for me.
“Playing huh? With that sex toy.”
I despised that tone. That sex toy? I kicked off the bedclothes, bent my legs at the knee and push that sex toy deeper into my cunt. “You mean this sex toy? The one in my pussy?”
Paul’s face reddened, “Do you have to? Like that?”
“Are you humiliated?”
“I’m uncomfortable. It’s a little blunt.”
“It feels so fucking good,” I said. “I’d prefer it to be your hot cock.”
“Please…don’t,” he said, stepping back.
As aroused as I was, I plummeted into a torrent of uncertainty and self-loathing. If Paul’s face was red, my face had to be a deep blood-red crimson. Rage, frustration, humiliation? I couldn’t separate the emotions that raged within me. I pulled out the toy and gazed at my husband.
“You’re a bastard of a man. A low bastard.”
“Don’t be like that,” Paul said, practically cowering at the doorway.
“Most men would appreciate a horny wife.”
“Most. I’m not most.”
“So you prefer a frigid woman? An asexual woman, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“Then what?” I yelled. I was tempted to throw the vibrator at him.
“It’s not the right time. Not now. It’s late and I don’t like sharing my bed with a…a vibrator,” he said, determined to get his point across about the vibrator. “Besides, you cheapened the moment with your gutter talk.”
“Fine. Go. Eff off.”
He flailed his arms. “This is what I mean. This isn’t communication. It’s abuse.”
“What you mean? When? Did we discuss our intimate life of late?”
“You know what I mean. Come on, I’ve got to get to an early meeting in the morning.”
I nodded.“That’s fine. I’ll take the guest room.”
Much to his surprise, I retrieved my laptop and left the room knowing that I’ll return for a dressing gown. At the back of my thoughts, I think about Paul and his Poker buddies. The afternoon tryst bolstered my ego. I couldn’t be that terrible for a complete stranger to be up to fucking. Nate had all of five minutes to bail out. As did I. No. Something had to be up for Paul to prefer five hours of cards with his buddies than an hour of sex with me.
As I left the room, Paul called me back.
“Why do you need the laptop.”
In my best nonchalant expression, I frown and sigh, “To do some online job hunting. I can’t sleep now.” Ignoring his body, I step back into the room and retrieve a dressing gown from the wardrobe. Paul didn’t have anything to add and I beat a hasty exit. I’d make do with the double bed and hoped the horniness would subside so I could get some sleep. Matrimonial routine reduces the likelihood of embarrassment, or embarrassment is redirected as frustration and anger. Suddenly, the newscaster and her irritating pitchy voice annoyed me. It’s the most trivial thing, a militant animal rights group ranting about swatted flies and the bad example the act of swatting represents.
I crawl under the duvet and retrieved my laptop. After I opened the dating page and logged in to my account, I noticed the abundance of messages. I almost exceeded two hundred. This didn’t mean that I suddenly morphed into Miss Universe or Jenna Jameson. When my online status was revealed for all to see, they became hopeful and started bombarding with winks and messages, many of which were standard sex templates the male members wrote to introduce themselves. Adult sex dating is like fishing. Cast the bait and wait for the fish to bite.
My sexual encounter with Nate felt like a blessing. After Paul’s reaction, I saw it as a bad omen. It opened up a sticky abyss. A deliciously risqué abyss. I scroll through messages and stop at a few. What to do?

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