Rut: A Story of Love

Author’s Note: I wrote this story whilst studying Creative Writing at uni years ago. It’s one of my favourite short stories I’ve written, and it was well received by my tutor. It wasn’t well received from other publications when I submitted it for possible publication. It was the initial inspiration for my own blog, for Radio Friendly. Please read the prologue for more details.


It’s not that I don’t love my wife.  Hell, she’s the mother of my children.  It’s just sometimes you get in a rut. Not so much in your life.  You can have a great job, see your friends twice a week, go out for beers on a weekend, but you’re still in a rut.  Maybe it’s a subconscious thing. Maybe. And I’m not saying we don’t have sex. We are regulars at it. But it’s missing something.  A little zaz. That spice that tingles your balls right as you finish. The lust. Maybe it’s ‘cause I watch too much porn. Maybe.

I know, I know.  A grown man isn’t supposed to be watching that sort of stuff.  They should be coming home from work and chatting to their wife and seeing how their kids went at football practise and eating dinner in front of the game and then going to bed next to their wife.  Not sneaking into the spare room at 1:00am and loading up the latest videos on Pornhub.

So what will it be tonight?  Teens Love Big Dicks? Step Mums Bang Step Sons?  Sorority Sisters? I think I’ll go Teens and the monster dick.  It starts. She kneels down. Wraps two hands around the serpent.  Lathers it with saliva and gorges her mouth around it. The blowjob that all men want but very rarely get: the porn star blowjob.  The king of blowjobs. Or queen, rather. She chokes. Of course she chokes, the thing is the size of my fucking forearm. And in four minutes I’ve shut my computer down and I’m back in bed next to my wife.  She’s asleep. We’re both pretty quick I guess?

I arrive home from work, again.  I chat to the wife, again. My sons did well in their football game, thanks for asking.  My daughter went an entire day without crapping herself. I ate dinner, not in front of the game this time.  Game of Thrones was on. Someone died, I think. My wife didn’t go to bed early though. She decided to stay up with me, she held my hand, stroked it up and down.  She even put her hand on my thigh. All I wanted was to get to my laptop. I needed my alone time. Dave’s time. It was nearly midnight when I noticed her asleep on the couch.  A Steven Seagal movie was on. And it was loud. It’s a wonder she slept with all the screaming and shit blowing up, illuminating the TV. But now was my chance. I snuck out of the room, sliding my socks along the floor.

On the menu that night, Anal Sluts Vol. 5.   It was the first to pop up on my recommended videos. I’d seen it before but time was not on my side. An oldie, but a goldie, or so they say. I hadn’t got around to seeing Vol.10 through to 15 yet.  It’s not necessarily that I want to try anal with my wife. It’s just something about seeing the dick push through the holiest of holes. I guess it’s kind of sick. Call me sick. I don’t care. Am I sick? Maybe.

I remember it.  The big moment.  I had been waiting all night, hell since I got home.  I’m fucking busting from the seams here. The video started and the sound booms from my speakers.  Three seconds of “Oh, oh, harder”, followed by “fuck me, fuck me”. Three seconds of me scrambling, dick in my hands, trying to turn the volume down.  My heart’s throbbing harder than my dick now.

It was coming up to the six minute mark of the video.  I was still going. To this day I’m still impressed with myself. She was moaning louder and louder.  I know it’s all fake. You don’t need to tell me that. But it works nonetheless. This is porn star sex.  Something that very rarely happens to the average 45 year old male. The guy’s dick was pounding, and I mean really pounding that ass.  I’m sure it was hurting the poor girl. But maybe that’s why I enjoy it? Am I sick? Maybe.

I had my tissues armed in my left hand, ready to catch the load, pants just nestled below my knees in case I heard a stirring down the hallway. That feeling – the brain wave – unlike any sip of beer or any drug on earth.  That is until your wife catches you mid-blow and smacks you on the back of the head.

It was now my head throbbing hard now.  I swear she hit me with a fucking cricket bat but she says it was her hand.  She told me she didn’t approve of what I had been doing. Of course she knew what I had been doing all along, women know everything if you didn’t already hear.  I felt like a kid again, getting in trouble with the teacher for throwing paper balls into the back of girls’ hair. I told her there’s nothing to worry about, it’s not like I’m cheating on her.  She didn’t like that. She did not like that one bit. She told me I’m sick. Maybe I am. She went to bed, and I was left to clean up my mess, pants still nestled around my knees.

There was no more sex after that.  No more sneaking away to the spare room either.  She had me on full lock down. It was like fucking Guantanamo Bay for a while there.  I come home from work now and still chat to my wife and still talk with my kids and still eat dinner in front of the TV, the latest season of The Walking Dead has just started.  My night is the same, but it’s different. I notice small things. Like how my sons help their mum out with dinner. I know because the onions in the spaghetti aren’t chopped as fine as what she does.  I notice that my daughter can sing the alphabet song without any help now. And she almost beat my high score in Space Invaders just the other day. God’s honest truth. I tell ya, kids these days. I notice how my wife snores in the first few minutes of her falling completely asleep.  And I’ve noticed that my internet usage has dropped significantly in the past couple of months.

Am I normal now? Maybe.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s