Awakened

1. Not very ladylike

WARNINGS: Sexual references and masturbation, references to death of a spouse

**

You've always enjoyed sex. Everything from the awkward fumbles with teenage boys in your youth, to consummating your marriage with Arthur. You liked the thrill of knowing what was to come, the warm feelings slowly building in your stomach, the anticipation of knowing where the initial kisses were leading. You liked the way warm hands felt on your bare skin, how lips felt pressed against your neck. You liked sweet nothings in your ear, the feeling of him between your legs, knowing he was seconds from filling you as he lined himself up.

You didn't understand the other wives who joked about not liking it, squealing with laughter at long lunches over cheap wine. They spoke about laying back and letting their husbands get on with it as they made grocery lists in their heads. You felt different, not wanting to share that you were an active participant, often initiating it yourself. Wearing lingerie to entice him, exploring yourself with your fingers to learn how your body responds. They would think you were some sort of a whore, a sex crazed maniac who can't control her hormones. It wasn't very ladylike.

In the early days of your marriage you spent many an evening with Arthur exploring each other's bodies and discovering what felt good for you both. It took you a bit of time to work out what you liked, how you liked to be touched, and guiding Arthur accordingly. You learnt a lot about how the male body responded too. But it was worth it, and you'd both enjoy the trial and error. He'd worship at the altar of your body, pleasuring you with tenderness and care as he took his time bringing you across the finish line. He was a tender lover, sex for him was a physical representation of your love.

Sometimes you wanted it harder. You'd ask him to use more force, or go faster, or if he could describe what he wanted to do to your body as he did it. You told him you liked it when he put his full weight on you, that you'd like him to tug on your hair. Once you asked him if he'd like to finish in your mouth, or across your breasts.

But he didn't like it. He didn't want to be rough in case he hurt you. He didn't want to be crass and disrespect you.

"You're my wife, sweetie" he would say, his brows furrowed with concern. "I love you. I respect you. I don't want to treat you like a whore".

You would feel deep shame at that. Wondering if there was something wrong with you, for asking your husband to do such things. For thinking of them. For desiring them. So many wives would bite your hand off to have a husband like yours, a husband who touched you so tenderly. How could you be so ungrateful?

So you stopped asking. You would make love to him, and it was always making love rather than sex, gratefully accepting the worship he offered. The classic missionary position as he looked lovingly into your eyes. You wouldn't always climax, but that was alright. You enjoyed trying, and appreciated the effort he made. You'd never describe what you did as fucking. But you did want to be fucked, even though you were too nervous to tell him.

Over the years as you settled into your marriage and each other, your physical intimacy dwindled. He would still kiss you goodbye when he left for work of course, snaking his arms around your waist as you cooked for him, giving you a peck on the cheek in public. But sex became a rare event. Birthdays. Christmas. Anniversaries. Valentine's Day. Sometimes after a few too many drinks. It became perfunctory, an item on your couple to-do list - alongside painting the fence or baking a cake. It was always nice of course. Nice was very much the word. Never earth shattering. Never terrible. Always nice. You were like roommates, close friends, sharing a space and happily co-existing. You no longer felt like a wife, but a friend.

Once, you found an dog-eared, battered book stuck behind a shelf at the local library. It was an erotic novel. You snuck it out in your purse so the librarian wouldn't know. You hid it under a loose floorboard in the study and would read it during the day when Arthur was at work. It contained long, overwrought descriptions of graphic sexual acts and had hand drawn diagrams alongside them. You would find yourself blushing as you read some of the words and gasped at the positions in the illustrations, your mind blown that people did such things. That they even conceived of them! You would feel a warm flutter between your thighs as you read, occasionally slipping a finger between your folds and gasping at your slick as you withdrew, glistening in the light.