This is what I always dreamed of. The view of a perfect, hard, cock above me as I laid on my back in anticipation. My legs bent and opened wide, welcoming what was to come. I could feel his hot breath as he stared down at me, his strong hands holding my hips and exploring my curves. The ravenous desire painted across his face was intoxicating, and certainly mirrored my own. He had taken charge, undressing me until I wore only my special lace thong – picked out just for this moment – and then thrown me on the bed. Hooking his fingers into the waist band of the small scrap of cloth I still wore, he ripped it from my body. It was obvious this wasn’t 1-sided lust, but a mutual yearning for one another. His throbbing dick, clearly eager to dive into my welcoming pussy, was just further evidence. I couldn’t wait to feel it inside me.

God what it will feel like to have someone that knows what they are doing. Someone to flip me over and fuck me from behind and pin me to the bed. Someone that knows all the angles, all the tricks, to work my pussy until I am begging for more. Someone that knows I am deep down a freak, and want a wild fuck, not some respectful nonsense. Make me cum until I soak the bed, and then unload that hot jizz all over me.

I slowly lowered my hand into my pajama pants, my eyes closed as I licked my lips picturing the scene I had crafted in my head. I could feel my nipples harden in my shirt as I lightly teased myself through my cotton panties.

“Fuck my needy pussy Frank” I said out loud, quietly, trying to invest in the fantasy. Gently, I felt my outer lips, sliding my fingers up and down my vulva through my panties, teasing myself further as I felt blood rushing to my genitals. I could feel my pussy getting warmer. I hadn’t cum in far too long, and my body was craving the release on a biological level.

“Sorry honey, I’m not in the mood right now” my fantasy jarringly said, now in my husband’s voice. The image of Frank, and his gorgeous penis about to enter my pussy to fuck my brains out, was suddenly changed. Now it was my husband, his small dick laying uselessly limp between his legs. The perfect hair, chiseled jaw, and unrealistic rippling muscles of Frank replaced instead by my husband’s body. The realistic body of a late 30s man that doesn’t live at the gym.

He was attractive – this man of “mine” – sexy even if looked at in the right mood, but his body had come to represent something more:  rejection. Uncaring. Selfish. Libido less and without an ounce of sexual curiosity or skill, my husband had the sex drive of a cinderblock. He was simultaneously the most repulsive thing, and the one thing I craved more than anything else. We had our wild times when first dating, but that was so long ago the memories were long gone. Now all I had was my imagination – “Frank” – and what I could get from using my hand.

A long bitter sigh left my lungs, as I opened my eyes and pulled my pants back up. My vagina was well and truly not in the mood now. Rehashing my sexless marriage and utter misery tends to do that. The idea that I could ever feel sexy again felt like a disturbed fantasy. “Frank” seemed just as much a taunt from my inner self as it was a fantasy to try and get off.

“There is no big cock and sex hungry man waiting for me” I told myself, “This is all there ever will be. Forever.”

But a part of me always refused to accept that. Forever is a long time, after all.

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Another week had come and gone. A busy week at work, in the middle of what was a very stressful research trial. The pressure was starting to ramp up, which was always difficult to handle when you have no stress relief at home. Even worse, when the stress gets too high, focusing enough even to masturbate became a real challenge. “Frank” can only do so much.

But it had been nearly 2.5 months since my husband had decided to give me a half-assed, partially limp, pathetic excuse for humping, pity fuck. He couldn’t find my clit with a fucking road map, yet he acts like he’s doing me such a favor when his once-a-quarter acknowledgement of my lower half rolls around.

I still want it bad; I can admit that to myself. Really bad. Like almost any-dick-will-do, bad. And I think that’s perfectly normal. If you are lost in the desert without water, you don’t lose your interest in the water, it just makes you want to beat the shit out of the person that kept the water away for so long!

But another week sailed by with nothing

Not so much of a kiss, a hug, or even an intimate high-five. God what I would give for one of those high-fives where you hold each other’s hands briefly right after they slap together, both smiling into each other’s eyes. Its like raw dogging a high five, basically hand fucking between 2 people.

Jesus Christ I am losing my god damn mind.

I laid in bed, carefully selected lace underwear totally hidden beneath my comfy pajama pants and thick covers pulled up to my waste. Once upon a time, Saturday night was the night, and I have clung to my tradition of being prepared, foolishly. Freshly showered, legs shaved, cute underwear, neatly trimmed pubes, and a small spritz of perfume he used to always like. Objectively I was wasting my time and energy, but giving up on the preparation meant acknowledging just how bad things had gotten. I wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

My husband – 6 years of catatonic sexual appetite – sat next to me. A useless lump. Half the time looking like a potato with limbs and half the time like a Greek God, sun-soaked muscles rippling in the air. It was one or the other, neither, and both all at once. My desire to be touched, loved, lusted, and wanted ebbing and flowing like an unruly river.

As I sat there, simultaneously repulsed by the thought of this Spud’s penis coming anywhere near me while also desiring nothing but a good long fucking from that same penis, his hand gently touched my calf under the covers.

What? Huh? Must be an accident, it hasn’t yet been 3 full months since he pathetically tried to –

My thoughts immediately slammed to a halt as his leg gently reached out and, carefully, touched the arch of my foot with a subtle brush of his toes.

Oh? OH! Oh. My. God. Oh My God. Oh-My-God. OhMyGod OhMyGod OhMyGod OhMyGod!! My mind screamed.

The sign! The old sign! From our youth. When we fucked each other silly at least 5 days a week. When we skipped class and only ate enough to keep our bodies fueled for sex. When he would spend all day seducing me and all night making me cum. Before medical school, research fellowships, academia, careers, and everything somehow choked his libido to death. He must still know! Deep down this Russet Potato of a man still recalled something about what I like. About what I want!

I rubbed his foot back, eager to feel the thrill up my leg from the old days. For once my “why do I still bother” preparations would get to see the light of day. The gaze of a hungry man. A man that wanted me, rather than going through the motions without care or thought.

As our feet continued to flirt, I could feel the heat running up my body. My legs instinctively opened, welcoming what was soon to come. My vag already wet as anticipation grew and grew and grew. Fantasies of Frank were long gone, replaced now with raw anticipation. I couldn’t believe it; I had longed so much for sex – any sex – but this was something more! An authentic desire I could sense in him. I could feel him matching my own. We were finally in sync in the bedroom.

I looked over at my husband right as he put his phone down. I was ready for his full attention. I wanted his hands. His mouth. His cock. I wanted him so bad that as he rolled towards me, reaching his arm out, I was already melting. As his out stretched hand brushed my furthest shoulder, I realized he was looking to roll me over. He was going to do what I wanted in the deepest part of my heart, to be fucked stupid from behind. To feel my pussy hammered while being pressed into the mattress by strong arms. Hot grunts from behind matching my muffled whimpers and moans. The realization that my husband had someone become this animalistic sex machine drove me mad with lust.

But he didn’t flip me over. He didn’t kiss me. My open legs, damp panties, and throbbing genitals remained untouched, ignored. Instead, he grabbed the tablet that was charging on my night stand and stood up saying:

“Going to go play candy crush downstairs” and walked out of the bedroom, never looking back.

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I would by lying if getting my hopes up so high only for them to then be so completely crushed rolled off me like water off a duck’s back. But the truth is, come Monday morning I was still unhappy with myself and hurting from the rejection. It took nearly an entire work week of 10-hour days and focusing on the delicate medical trial I was running to finally get the shame, sadness, and anger to clear my mind. Work was always a great diversion, and by Friday I was feeling significantly better. Partly because I was leaving after work for a conference at the university a few hours down the road, but mostly because I had once again shoved all my feelings down and tried to pretend things were fine.

“Who do we have now?” I asked my undergraduate researcher who helped do leg work for the testing. Fridays are usually lighter days; college students don’t want to be held up on their weekend plans by taking these tests in the afternoon. I’d just reviewed the list of test subjects and last nights new round of data. Everything seemed to be going as expected, which wasn’t bad, but no huge improvement in the formulation had yet been found. Today’s tests were more hopeful, but it was slow work, as this type of research always was.

“Today we are starting with Subject #23-47A, aka Jeff*“* Madison said with a smile.

“And is he ready for the start of the test? He’s signed the waivers and been read the instructions and is ok with it?”

“Yes” replied Madison, crisply.

“Has the medicine been given and he’s is ready for observation of sexual function?”

“Yes, the medicine was consumed 30 minutes ago and as such the timing is now right for him to perform his test*”* Madison replied.

“Thank you, let us head to the observation room then” I said as I lead the way down the hall while checking over the ingest paperwork. The room we were headed to had all the observation instrumentation and a 1-way mirror to watch the patients. Testing the medicine essentially boiled down to watching the test subject masturbate as they described their erectile and ejaculation function, and then testing for an unnaturally quick refraction period shortly after.

“This one’s really cute” Madison said in a hushed whisper for only me to hear as we walked down the long hall of the Medical Research building. “Kinda looking forward to see what he’s got…. down there, you know?” She added with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Undergraduate Madison, it is inappropriate to discuss such things. This is a rigorous scientific test; we must remain professional.” I said back, somewhat surprised at the comments coming from my new undergrad. She was a human sexuality major; they were always open about these things. And usually not shy about sharing it.

“Of course, Dr. Bellechatte. I apologize” Madison said with a wry smile.

“Please, like I have said before, just call me Cathy” I said as we stepped into a room labeled ‘Observation Room 7’.