A bored housewife, a question.

My story begins while my husband, James, is buried balls-deep in my pussy, screwing me during one of our weekly, Saturday night 'love-making' sessions. Laying on my back, legs spread so he can thrust away in the darkness of our bedroom, a thought popped into my mind that I just couldn't shake. I tried to focus on the sensations vibrating through my pussy as his cock slid back and forth inside me, but the thought kept getting louder and louder until it was practically yelling inside of my brain.

THIS IS FUCKING BORING!

My heart tried to protest, throwing up roadblocks and signals meant to deny that one, damning statement. It tried to tell me that I loved my husband deeply, that he was a wonderful man and a great father to our three children. That he loved me in return, treated me very well and I enjoyed having sex with him. All of which was true.

But my entire body was screaming something else and apparently it wasn't going to allow me to ignore it anymore. Two more thoughts rose to the fore, competing with the original.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED SOMETHING NEW? and WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU ORGASMED?

Reluctantly, I had to admit that I didn't know the answers to those questions. While my husband continued to drive his cock deep inside me, I found myself wracking my memories to find out what had changed, when had we become this boring couple that only had sex once a week--usually just in missionary--and maybe did something a little more special--maybe some oral sex or doggy-style--on birthdays and anniversaries.

We'd been high school sweethearts, each of us the only person the other has been with sexually, from a rural community in the middle of nowhere. I guess we'd be considered the stereotypical couple, he'd played football and I'd been a cheerleader, but as anyone who's grown up in a small community can tell you, every boy played football and every girl cheered. Both our sets of parents had grown up in the same community and had been thrilled when we started dating in our junior year. We became known as 'THE couple' of our graduating class, avoiding the drama and heartbreak of most teenage romances.

I remembered the thrills as we discovered each other sexually. Our first kiss on my porch after our first date, complete with overbearing father watching through the window in the door. The first time his hand slid underneath my shirt during a hot make-out session after one of his football games. The first time I stuck my hand in his pants and found his big, hot rod nearly bursting from excitement. My first blowjob while 'watching' a movie at the local drive-in, which ended with such a sticky mess that he had to take off his shirt to clean up my face--he stayed shirtless for the rest of the night, much to my delight. And finally, our first night of sex--honestly better than I expected--in the bed of his pick-up truck one night when we had gone out stargazing.

Perhaps sensing my distractedness, my husband dipped his head low and captured one of my swollen nipples between his lips, lovingly sucking on it with and licking it with an eager tongue. My tits are admittedly one of my best features. They started growing early and didn't really stop until after our kids were born. So, depending on how they're measured, they usually fit quite snugly into a DD-cup or E-cup bra. On top of their size, they're extremely sensitive. He knew this usually drove me wild and he was trying to make sure I enjoyed myself, but he was having limited success. It was going to take more than that to drive away my thoughts.

Our first time together also resulted in my first pregnancy--again, not an uncommon occurrence in small towns like ours. Our parents were miffed, but not overly so, especially after James proposed to me--not to 'make things right' or to 'do the honorable thing' but because we were honestly and truly in love--and we were married the week after our high school graduation.

James found a job working at a local 'feed and seed' distribution company and less than a year later, our oldest daughter, Clara was born. Hormones still at high levels, our son, William, followed a year later and the baby of the family, Sarah, a year after that. I remember those early years fondly, taking care of the kids and fucking like rabbits, christening every room in our little house multiple times over.

So when had things changed? When had we changed?

James was getting close, I could tell and I put a little more effort into my actions, thrusting my hips toward him and urging him on with whispered words of encouragement. With a final groan, I felt his seed spill inside of me, a sensation that still sent a tiny electrical charge all the way to my toes, despite my lethargic attitude. A couple of thrusts later, he was done, panting lightly and leaning forward for a kiss.

"I love you," he said, and I gave a small smile before returning the words back to him. I immediately felt guilty afterward. Not because I didn't mean them, I did. But I knew I was keeping a secret from him, about our relationship and how I was feeling about it.

As he slid out of me, he settled into his side of the bed and pulled on the boxers he'd lain on the floor before we began. I tugged down my nightgown over my legs and pulled up the covers, each of us turning until our backs were facing each other--again, another change from our earlier selves, when we'd sleep naked in each other's arms.

I knew I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon, so I lay there, thoughts running faster than freight trains through my head, still trying to pinpoint how we'd gotten to where we were. Was it really just a gradual change, the famous and dreaded 'it happens to every couple?' Was this my doom, to be bored sexually for the rest of my life with a man I loved?

And then it happened. The moment that changed everything.

James rolled over and rested a hand lightly on my shoulder and said, "Can I ask you a question?"