Girl on the Net

I was chatting to my dude recently about the least sexy kind of sex, and he mentioned ‘lie-back-and-think-of-England’ sex. You know the kind: where two people have sex out of a misplaced sense of duty, or the idea that that’s what they ‘should’ do. Thing is, though, I have an entirely filthy mind, and even this kind of sex can be extraordinarily arousing if you think of it in the right way. So he challenged me to write it: an erotic story about apparently un-erotic sex, and I had so much fun writing it that I recorded it as audio porn too…

CONTENT NOTE: Everything in this story is entirely consensual. However, it does play a little with the idea of uninformed consent. If that’s something you’re likely to be squicked out by, please don’t read on. If that’s the kind of thing that intrigues you, welcome to my world. This is probably what I’d have been like if you’d married me to the right person in the 1950s.

Think of England

Perfunctory. That’s how I’d describe the sex I have with my husband: perfunctory. Perhaps ‘dutiful.’ He lifts the hem of my nightdress, climbs on top of me, and ploughs away. Sometimes he bites his lip. Occasionally he’ll let out a strangled grunt or what sounds to me like a weary sigh. I’ve had plenty of time to study his expression because in all our years of marriage, he’s never once looked me in the eye during the act. Instead he looks straight ahead, staring at the lurid green upholstery of the headboard, as if there’s some erotic secret hidden in the patterns on the fabric.

And I? Well I’ve been taught to be dutiful, so I do my duty. I lie back, look up, spread my legs and stay quiet. I will always stay quiet, in case he suspects that I’m not as dutiful as I first appear. Because the truth is that I like this.

I really like this.

I like the swell of shivery anticipation that I start to feel at 9:15. That time precisely, because it’s the moment when my work is done – the dishes are clean and dry, he’s settled in front of the fire with a book and a glass of beer (glass chilled in the fridge before serving – my mother taught me that trick). I take a seat in the armchair next to his and stare into the fire for a while, conscious of every twitch and rustle as he shifts slightly while he reads.

Sometimes I glance at him and catch him in a moment of rare emotion: the side of his mouth will turn upwards in a wry smile, or his eyebrows will knit together in frustration or concentration. I love watching my husband like this. The girl inside me thrills to realise that this man beside her is hers forever – with his five o’clock shadow and his tempered maturity and his extremely adult desires.

I sit with him from 9:15 until 10pm precisely, and then he leads me upstairs.

It always begins with a gentle kiss on my forehead. A paternal, pleasant gesture that is no less pleasant for the fact that it’s a command: come to bed now, wife. I like being commanded, though I can’t let on. There’s something deeply wanton about the feelings it stirs within me. Much better, surely, to do my duty in the way I am expected. It’s safer that way.

We brush our teeth and turn our backs to each other while we put on our nightclothes. He in absurdly striped pyjamas, me in a long white gown. We look exactly like my parents, though there’s more love here, I hope. But it isn’t love that’s making me feel wanton right now. It’s my husband. And it isn’t in his warm chest or the shape of his wrists or his jawline either: it’s his manner. The way he is with me.

As I said before, our sex is perfunctory. We do it once each day, like clockwork, at 10:15 when we turn out the light. We kiss, it goes dark, and we lie there beside each other. I can hear his breath and mine and at least one heartbeat. My whole body is tense and rigid, as I try desperately not to let on just how much I ache for him. I can hear the sheet rustle as he touches himself gently – so soft and light, as if to check that the blood is flowing and things will happen as they always do. He does it quietly, because he doesn’t want me to hear: but I do hear. And I bask in the secret knowledge of what he is doing in this moment.

I keep my eyes shut tight, because it wouldn’t be seemly to show enthusiasm, but where my skin touches the cotton-soft sheet I can feel it burning up. I can feel my pulse thudding at my wrists and neck and between my legs, and I worry that one day it’ll thump so loudly he’ll hear it and worry for my health.

But I’m not sick, just eager. Though some might say the two are one and the same.

Sometimes when I’m waiting like this, I bite my tongue, thinking that if I don’t keep hold of it I’ll cry out with desire. That I’ll beg him to give me this thing, exposing the truth that it’s what I truly want, shattering the illusion that I only accept it out of duty.

Perfunctory: that’s the word for the sex we have. Every day, like clockwork, at 10:15, he turns onto his side and places one hand on my stomach. He fumbles at me, clumsily, as if he’s rummaging for a lost book of matches in a drawer. Somewhere in his fumblings, somehow, he reaches the hem of my nightdress and starts to draw it upwards. His hand is trembling slightly, and when we first did this on my wedding night I wondered if he thought my skin might burn him. I know differently now, though: he doesn’t tremble out of fear, but out of lust. My stoic, mature husband fumbles and flutters at me because he can barely control his desire. I lie biting my lip to keep my own in check, and I wonder if on any of our many, many nights he’s felt me flutter in return.

I don’t know, because I’ve never asked. And I never, ever will. Just as I’ll never wriggle or shrug off my own nightgown: I will let him draw it up over my body, yanking and pulling and struggling to get it high enough to expose my breasts. It would be easier for him to strip me if I helped, but helping would appear eager, and I am so desperate not to appear too eager for this.

I am eager, though. My heart beats a celebratory drum on the inside of my chest when he’s raised the hem of my nightdress far enough and he rolls over to climb on top of me. He nudges my legs open with one of his knees and kisses me, again, on the forehead. I can feel the hardness of him twitching between my legs, and my own body responds with a familiar ache of longing. A physical ache, this: it hurts. When my mother told me about marital duty she never mentioned that: she taught me about the monthly visits and how to help God bless us with children, but she never told me that I’d hurt with eagerness for him. Never told me that the only thing which would soothe this ache would be the moment he slipped inside me with a grunt.

Another reason why I can never tell him. These feelings, perhaps, show that there’s something wrong with me. I’m an indecent, broken woman who responds with desire to that thing for which I’ve been taught to feel only a vague disgust.

I lie back, open my legs, and he shoves himself inside me. Not roughly, but not gently either. As I said: it’s perfunctory. He goes in and out, in and out, over and over and over. You could almost use him as a metronome.

It will sound strange, I’m sure, but the perfunctory way in which he does it only adds to my ardour. I think about what must be happening in his head: the conflict between his dutiful side which uses my body however it must in order to keep our marriage in good spirit, and the wantonness which surely exists in his own mind too. His desire to keep pushing himself onward – in and out, in and out, like a metronome – so that he can feel the sweet release as he shudders and spits inside me.

And I am glad – so so glad – that he never looks me in the eye! More opportunity for me to peek from under semi-closed eyelids to admire the gritted teeth and stern jaw of a man who does not know if he does what he does out of duty or out of desire. Beads of sweat start to collect at the top of his forehead, just below the hairline, and occasionally one will drop down onto my face. Once, when I’d checked he had his eyes fully closed, I stuck my tongue out to lick a stray drop that had fallen onto my face, just above my lipline. The taste of him was divine, and I wanted at that moment to throw my arms around him and whisper my illicit secret: I love this, doing my duty. Were it not my duty I would still want to do it – every day.

But we’re nearing the end now, so it’s time for me to close my eyes and focus on the feeling I get when he’s inside me. This enormous pressure in my stomach and between my legs, that feels like a wave drawing strength from the ocean, getting ready to crash upon the beach. I close my eyes, bite my lip again and make sure to show no outward signs of my desire. His grunts and sighs provide the pace as I climb higher and higher, and I can sense that he is getting close to the conclusion. He doesn’t speed up, but he becomes firmer. Each time he pushes inside me, slightly harder than the last. His arms, placed either side of my head, begin to tremble. At the back of his throat I can hear the beginnings of the long moan with which he ends this.

Now is the time I have to be careful, because if I let myself go right now I could easily end up blowing my secret. It happened once: I pushed myself too far and too hard, allowed myself to drown in the lustful knowledge that I was just a vessel on which he did his duty. I let myself stare for too long at the tension in his jaw, squeeze myself slightly around his hardness, and drown in the sound of those gorgeous, guttural moans that he made on each inward stroke. Then my body betrayed me: with a flush of heat and a powerful shudder I reached the peak of my pleasure. Trembling and hot and giving over to the bliss of being sated, in my happy daze I almost let out a cry of joy.

I’ve never let that happen again. I maintain my control as he builds to a climax. In and out. Firmly. Stoically. Perfunctorily. Never once looking me in the eye. He does his duty not with me but upon me, and God help me that’s exactly why I like it.

When he finishes inside me, with a grunt and a shudder and another droplet of sweat which falls tantalisingly close to my slightly-parted lips I wonder: what is he thinking? Is he satisfied? Disappointed? Proud of a job well done? I hope he is all of these things. More – I hope he, like me, will remember this night tomorrow. I hope he, like me, will find somewhere to be alone so he can reminisce over last night’s events, and touch the places we’ve been ordered not to touch.

Above all this I hope that he never learns my secret. That he never knows just how much pleasure he gives me. I will do my duty, as my duty, because no other way could bring me this much joy.

If you liked this, I have written a few other pieces of erotic fiction in the past that you might like to check out. Most are a bit more BDSM-y than this one.

You can also find more sexy stories read aloud on the audio porn page – if you’d like to help me make more audio porn (or make suggestions for stories you’d like me to write in the future) feel free to support me on Patreon. Don’t feel like you have to though – I’ll always get Patreon-only content up on this site eventually because it’s important to me to have as much of my stuff free to access as possible. If you want to support my work without money, all you need to do is share the stories you love with people you think might like them too.