Chapter 2

Years passed ... eight of them ... long and unhappy years. At twenty six Paul was the father of an eight year old daughter.

Paul and Joyce had lived in their own apartment for five years. After graduating from college they had lived with her parents for one year while Paul taught and saved the money necessary for them to set up their own housekeeping.

His daughter, at eight, was openly partial to his wife and maternal grandparents so that Paul did not feel the deep natural love that is usually transmitted from father to daughter. The girl had been imbued by her mother and grandparents so that she neither respected or admired her father.

This was why Paul went home reluctantly daily from school to his cold unhappy home. Sure, Joyce kept a neat house, prepared good meals and did everything that most wives do-that is, openly at least, for in private she completely resented her husband and did everything possible to put him down.

In bed over the years Joyce had discovered that she could really get even with Paul-get even with him for making her the way that she was. She had sex with him reluctantly and when she did it was almost as if Paul were screwing a dead body. There was little, if any, response.

As for her personal appearance she deliberately let that slide. She felt no compulsion to look pretty and attractive for her husband and over the years had gained weight and had changed from an exceptionally beautiful girl to a rather dowdy wife. Her breasts, once so firm and sensual, were now large, soft and sagging. Her narrow waist had expanded so that the definition, if any, was slight It got so that the only time Joyce looked good and presentable, when she looked desirable, was when they were going somewhere or having company and even then it was a far cry from that beautiful girl of eighteen.

Paul had grown accustomed to this over the years and it had reached the point where he was almost an impersonal being. He could function in his home almost without feeling. He applied his energies to studying and at twenty-six had gotten his master's in English and was working on his doctorate. That became his real love ... his life.

The dinner that night had been good though, as usual, there was no communication between Paul, his wife and his daughter. He had retired to his den where he corrected some papers and read for the rest of the evening.

At eleven o'clock he got ready for bed. As he stood at his dresser in his pajama, taking the last puffs of his cigarette he began to feel that stirring, that familiar urge, churning in his bowels.

"After all," he thought, "I'm a man. I'm entitled to love and sex and it's her place to give it to me."

He nodded at his wife who had just climbed into the bed a few minutes earlier.

He ground out the cigarette in the ash tray and walked slowly over to his wife's side of the bed.

He placed his warm palm on her cheek and brushed away the long stringy hair.

"I'd ... I'd like to make love, Joyce."

"Paul, I've had a long day. I'm tired. Maybe ... maybe tomorrow night."

"No ... no Joyce. It's not okay. I don't ask often. I don't impose on you often. But after all, I'm a man. I have needs and feelings and urges and I want it ... tonight"

Joyce's eyes roamed over Paul's body. He was as handsome at twenty six as he was at eighteen but this didn't matter to her at all. She had succeeded at pushing down all her desires as a woman but she had the opinion of herself as a good wife and she was, at least, in the mechanical aspects of it So she realized that there was no putting him off-no denying him what was rightfully his. He wasn't going to get any grounds for separation or divorce as far as she was concerned.

"Well, okay, if you really want to," she said impersonally.

Paul stood up and unbuttoned his pajama shirt exposing his manly chest Joyce threw back the blankets and wiggled out of her cotton nightgown, sighing because of the imposition on her. As Paul slid out of his pajama pants he looked at her, down at his wife's fleshly body.

"It's a shame," he thought. "She could still be attractive, still be beautiful. It's a shame, just a plain shame."

His prick was still limp. The sight of her body no longer instantly aroused him and his hand moved in between his thighs fingering his meat until he could feel it responding to his touch. When it had expanded its full measure Paul knelt onto the bed and stretched out along side of his wife.

Joyce made no move to touch him to feel his warm body or to stimulate and arouse him. To her it was nothing. To her the act was just something that had to be done, that had to be endured.

Paul had long since realized and accepted this and moved his body onto hers, pushing the head of his shaft in between her cunt lips. Joyce shut her eyes. She always did when she felt his shaft sliding into her pussy. It was almost as if she wanted to block out the reality, of it-to change things.

Paul reached down, forcing Joyce's legs further apart, so that he could work it in better. She offered no resistance but didn't cooperate either.

With one quick movement of his hips Paul sunk his whole rod into Joyce's fleshly snatch. The warm moist folds of her pussy engulfed the entire length of his cock and just this sensation alone made Paul's body tremble with anticipation-with desire.

He stretched out full on top of her feeling her huge melons press against his muscular chest and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. His back arched, his hips moved and he began to screw her, withdrawing slowly and then plowing it back in. It became almost ritualistic as his cock slid in and out of her pussy.

Gradually his tempo increased, his passion mounted, until he was humping her furiously-beating his meat into her hot love hole. Within Paul's body the pressures mounted. The stirring in his nuts became intense and he felt the liquid inside of his moving through his system and getting ready to jet out.

Paul began to think back again to that day in the park and jolts of electricity raced through his body. He was becoming more excited, more passionate ... as his climax moved closer. The head of his cock expanded and at the same time every one of Paul's strained. Then he felt his hot come squirting out of his prick like it was shooting out of the nozzle of a high pressure water hose. His hands clutched at the bed and he grit his teeth moaning loudly.

It was over. It had been rotten and it was over. But at least he didn't have to jerk off. He pulled out of Joyce and got out of bed, cleaning him off with a towel. Joyce disappeared into the bathroom as Paul put on his pajamas.

"Never again," he thought "She's gonna have to ask me the next time." He was depressed and felt guilty and unclean. But Paul had made these vows before and in time his need for sex, his lust for a woman would become stronger than his pride.