My Wife is No Longer My Lover Ch. 01

"Oops, sorry," he said while slow to close his mother's bedroom door.

His mother didn't move to cover her nakedness with her hands or her forearm. As if willingly showing him what he so wanted to see, she looked at him as if she understood his need to see her naked ass, her naked breasts, and/or her naked pussy. She stood there with her arms by her side while waiting for him to close her bedroom door.

"Please knock before opening my door, John," said his mother with calm patience and kind understanding for his need to see what he shouldn't see.

His sister had a much different reaction and an angry attitude whenever her brother caught her without her clothes.

"Pervert," screamed his sister while desperate to cover her naked breasts with her forearm and her naked pussy with her hand. "Get out! Mom!"

Good timing was the key to seeing all that he needed to see to masturbate over his mother and sister later. As if he was psychic, he had a knack of barging in their bedrooms at the precise moment that they were standing there in their bra and panties, topless, and/or naked. Returning the favor, while knowing his mother and/or sister would open his bedroom door without knocking too, he routinely exposed himself to them. Allowing them to catch him naked while masturbating, his mother looked away while his sister stood in his doorway watching him stroking himself while scolding him.

"You shouldn't be doing that. You shouldn't be playing with yourself pervert. You need a girlfriend," said his sister finally closing his door after watching him ejaculate all over himself.

* * * * *

Even though he had never seen any of them in their underwear, topless, and/or naked, he masturbated over the imagined thoughts of seeing his mother's old friends in their panties and bras, topless, and/or naked. Even though he had never seen any of them in their panties and bras, topless and/or naked, he masturbated over the imagined thoughts of seeing his sister's old friends in their panties and bras, topless and/or naked. Even though he had never seen any of them without their clothes, he masturbated over his old college classmates while imagining what they'd look like without their clothes.

Even though he had never seen his aunt without her clothes, he masturbated over his aunt, his mother's sister, who was as much of a MILF as was his mother. Even though he had never seen his cousin without her clothes, he masturbated over his aunt's daughter, his cousin, who was just as sexy as was his sister. Now decades later and with him having new masturbation material, he masturbated over his friends' wives, his neighbors, and his co-workers while imagining them without their clothes and while imagining having sex with them. He masturbated over old and current celebrities, movie stars, singers, and women he had seen at the mall.

Suffice to write, a regular cum machine, as horny as he was sexually frustrated, John was always masturbating. Sometimes, when he was horny enough, turning into a literal masturbation machine, he masturbated as many as four times a day. Suffice to say, with enormous amounts of testosterone still flowing through his veins, as much as he was perverted and as much as he was horny, John was sexually frustrated. Now that he had the Internet with all the pornographic pictures, images, and videos, he never had to leave his home office to find all the sex to masturbate over that he needed to sooth his sexual frustration.

No longer must he walk for miles while hunting women to hopefully see up-skirt peeks of their panties and down-blouse views of their breasts. If only his wife, Kathy, knew that he was a pervert, he'd be so embarrassed. Yet, if only she'd give him sex, he'd be so happy. If only his wife gave him sex, he'd be sexually satisfied. If only his wife gave him sex, he'd never masturbate again. If only his wife gave him sex, he'd never look at another woman, another men's magazine, or peruse the Internet again.

He'd never masturbate over another celebrity or movie star. If only his wife would suck his cock and allow him to cum in her mouth while he watched her swallow, he'd be the happiest man on Earth. Only, she was as cold as he was horny and she didn't suck cock. Just as she'd never give him sex and/or suck his cock, John would never stop masturbating.

* * * * *

In the way that he still remembered seeing his mother and sister in their bras and panties, topless, and naked, he'd love nothing more than to see his wife in her bra and panties, topless, and/or naked. In the way that he routinely saw his mother and sister in their short, sheer, and low-cut nightgowns, he'd love nothing more than to see his wife in a sexy nightgown. Too modest of a prude, if only she didn't always wear her damn bathrobe over her nightgown, he'd be happy.

Is that too much to ask and too much to expect to see his wife in her bra and panties, topless, and/or naked? Is that too much to ask and too much to expect to see his wife in her sexy nightgown? He'd love nothing more than to see an up-nightgown peek of her panties or naked pussy. He'd love nothing more than to see a down-nightgown view of the tops of her breasts, her cleavage and, hopefully, her areolas and nipples.

Yet with her a sexless librarian, he'd have better luck seeing something forbidden of a Catholic Nun than he ever did in seeing something of his holier than thou, morally modest, and religious wife. Without covering it over with the modesty of her nightgown, he wished she'd give him a sexy show while wearing one of the sheer, short, sexy, low-cut nightgowns that he bought her from Victoria's Secret each year for Valentine's Day. Yet, never wearing any of them after wearing them to bed Valentine's night, she stored them away in her drawer. As if she wore them for his benefit and out of politeness, she wore them only that one time.

For the rest of the year, as if she was Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy or Donna Reed in the Donna Reed Show, she preferred wearing pajamas to bed over her panties and bra. Unless she was a wife from a situation comedy of the sixties, what woman wears pajamas to bed over her underwear? No longer wasting his money on sexy nightgowns, he hasn't bought her a gift in years.

If only she'd stand in front of an open refrigerator door in her nightgown without the modesty of her damn bathrobe, without wearing underwear underneath, and without a light on in the kitchen, he'd see more of her sexy, shapely body. If only she'd stand in front of the TV in her nightgown without the modesty of her damn bathrobe and without wearing her panties, and with the light off in the living room, he'd see her naked ass, tits, and pussy. If only she'd greet the day naked but for her nightgown by opening the drapes without the modesty of her robe, he'd see right through her nightgown as if she was standing in front of a TSA, X-ray machine.

He'd be so thrilled to see any part of his wife's nearly naked body but he never did. Only, with her so modestly shy even after 45-years of marriage, she dressed and undressed in the bathroom or dressed and undressed in the bedroom without the light. A virgin when he married her, she was no different now than she was back then. Saving herself for her husband on their marriage bed, unless they were making babies, her topless and naked body was off-limits to him then as it still is now. Now that they're done making babies, sadly and frustratingly, they're done having sex.

Her excuse now for not giving him all the sex he needed to not to masturbate himself was religion. Using religion as her excuse, as far as she was concerned, the only reason for them to have sex was to propagate. Now that they're too old to have children, according to her, they're too old for sex too.

'What? Too old for sex? Are you kidding me? Before we were married with her a virgin and now after we're married with her practically a Nun, I'm still waiting for sex. I've been waiting years to have sex with my wife. Bitch! Cold, frigging bitch,' he thought about his wife while reaching for the lube and for the Kleenex to masturbate over something, someone, anything, and anyone but her, his own wife.

Every time he kissed her, especially when he French kissed her, not wanting him to start anything, she allowed him to feel her ass and/or her breasts through her clothes but never her nipples or her pussy. Even when they were dating steadily and before they were married, she never allowed him to go up her short skirt to touch her pussy through her panties. If only he knew her dirty, little secret, wouldn't he be shocked? If only he knew all the men she masturbated and sucked while they had their wicked sexual way with her nearly naked body, what would he say?

Too sexually prudish for him, even now that they're married for seemingly forever and until death do they part, seldom did she allow him to move his hand up her top to feel her breasts through her bra. Unable to cop a cheap feel of her even after they were married, she always wore her frigging bathrobe over her nightgown around the house and wore her nightgown over her underwear to bed. With him never allowed to sexually touch her in the way that a husband sexually touches his wife, she never sexually touched him either.

Just once, he'd love to feel her naked ass, her naked breasts, and her naked pussy through her nightgown. Just once, he'd love to be allowed to stick his horny hand down her nightgown to fondle her tits and finger her nipples while sticking his other hand up her nightgown to feel her naked ass and finger her naked pussy. Just once he wanted her to want him in the way that he wanted her. Just once, he wished she'd make the first sexual move to initiate sex.

She may as well wear gloves to bed. Then, again, in the way that Donna Reed and June Cleaver, Beaver's mother, always wore white gloves, he wouldn't mind her wearing white gloves to bed, as long as she gave him a hand job while wearing her white gloves. As if she was a curator in a museum handling priceless works of art or antiquities while holding his cock in her hand, he imagined shooting a load of cum all over her white, gloved hand as she stroked him. Just once, he wished she voluntarily and willingly give him a hand job. Just once, he wished she'd suck his cock and allow him to cum in her mouth and/or across her tits.

Every time he tried getting romantic, she'd reject him as if he wasn't her husband or had some sort of sexually transmitted disease. She'd push his hand away as soon as he started fingering her nipple through her bra. Wanting what he had never seen of her and was never allowed to touch of her before they were married, she had created sexual desires in him for her that he never felt for any other woman. Now that they're married, once they had their children, and with her having a myriad of excuses why they couldn't have sex, their sexual life was over before even starting.

He wished he was more of a man. He wished he was man enough to strip off her clothes. He wished he was man enough to force his wife to give him sex. He wished he was man enough to grab her by her hair, force her to her knees, and shove his erect prick in her mouth. He wished he was man enough to bend her forward, lift her skirt, pull down her panties, and fuck her like a dog. Only, he wasn't that kind of man. If only he knew his wife wanted him to be that kind of man, a man to force her to have sex, they'd both be so happy as well as sexually satisfied.

Always mindful of how she sat and always sitting like a lady, he never saw her panties in an up-skirt peek or her bra in a down-blouse view as he had seen of so very many other women. So very sexually frustrating for him, with her the prettiest woman he had ever seen, he only wished she was more sexual. He wished she sexually wanted him in the way that he sexually wanted her. Whatever spell she put on him worked because the more that she refused to show him and/or allow him to touch and feel of her, the more that he wanted her, fantasized about her, and masturbated over her and over other women.

To be continued...

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