Continue home life venting

You lean back against the sofa cushions and let the words come.

“Six months,” you say. “Natasha has not touched me in six months. Every time I try she has an excuse. Sore. Tired. Not in the mood. She used to say I was too much for her, too thick, too long, and somewhere along the line that turned into a full stop. I come home hard and she turns away. I stop trying and the silence just gets heavier. Today I needed to get out of the house before I put my fist through a wall.”

The earlier release with Cheryl has left you wired rather than settled. Testosterone still runs hot under your skin. Every shift of Ruby’s body on the other end of the sofa feeds it. Her soft clothes have slipped with the way she is curled up. The neckline of her top has eased lower, showing the upper curve of one breast. The fabric of her leggings clings to the lean lines of her thighs and the rounded shape of her arse. You keep talking, but your eyes keep drifting.

“I keep thinking if I am just patient it will come back. It does not. She looks at me like wanting her is the problem. Six months of that and I am starting to feel like a stranger in my own bed.”

Ruby listens without interrupting, the same open attention she has always given you in the candid conversations at staff socials. But her gaze drops once, briefly, to the front of your trousers. The thick outline is impossible to miss. The combination of the vent, the leftover heat from Cheryl, and the way Ruby’s clothes have shifted around her athletic curves has you fully hard. She notices. Her eyes linger a second longer than politeness allows before they return to your face, and something unreadable moves through her expression.

She does not call attention to it out loud. She simply adjusts her position on the sofa, the movement making the top slip another fraction, and keeps her voice soft.

“That is a long time to carry it alone,” she says. “No wonder you needed to get out.”