Handjobs Only

"Are you ready then?" asks my wife.

"Yes," I tell her. I'm standing in the bath with my back to her and my legs apart. I feel her hand as it reaches between my legs and takes a grip on my balls, which are soft and loose from my bath. She begins to tug at them and knead them. My dick begins to swell, my balls to tingle with delicious sensations. I lower myself a little, pressing my anus onto her warm bare wrist. Her fingers continue to fondle me: with her nails she makes little scratching movements, down the sides of my balls, tugging my scrotum with them. My dick is straining at the leash now: by my groans my wife can tell that I'm ready: with her free hand she reaches round and takes a firm grip on my cock. All the sensations in and around my genitals come together now, rise to a peak: a few tugs are all it takes before I shoot my load fiercely over the bathroom wall, groaning with pleasure.

My wife removes her hands: I hear the sound of water in the wash basin.

"I'll be home about five," she says. "Make sure you rinse the tiles down."

With that she leaves, and I slump down onto the side of the bath, savouring my third handjob of the week, at least my hundredth of the year, and reflecting on how things came to be this way.

I met my wife, Julie, at college. She had lovely fair hair, a curvy, full-breasted figure and a warm, sensuous face, and looked, not just to my eye alone, as though her natural habitat was the bedroom.

But appearance can be deceptive. It was only after I had courted Julie and we had married that I came to learn that she had never really liked sex.

"I tried," she told me. "It wasn't that I had any moral or religious scruples. But I never really enjoyed it. Even before I met any boys, when my friends were all raving on about masturbation, it all seemed a lot of hard work for next to nothing."

She tried with me, too: and made such a good job of disguising her feelings that it was over a year before I was forced to confront the fact that sex was not working for her.

"It's not you," she told me. "It was just the same with my earlier boyfriends. I wouldn't say I don't feel anything down there: but what I feel is so mild that it's hardly worth the bother. It takes me ages to get anywhere near to wanting an orgasm, and when I have one I don't feel any better for it: as like as not I've just got a headache."

"But you've gone along with it," I said. "Was that really all for my benefit?"

"To be honest, yes," she said. "I know how much you wanted it. But more and more I came to resent it. I'm sorry: but I can't go on pretending any more: the truth is I just hate being poked about down there, and I hate having you inside me."

As you can imagine, this was a bitter blow to me. But we talked through the issue exhaustively, Julia all the time reassuring me that she still loved me, and although I made various suggestions as to how sex might be pleasurable for her, none of them worked, until one tearful evening Julia told me that she just could not bear to have me inside her again.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "And if you want to leave me I'll quite understand, though that's not what I want. But I can't have sex with you any more, it's making me far too miserable."

"So that's the end then," I said, feeling resentful even though I was trying to be understanding. A life of celibacy from now on."

"It doesn't have to be quite that drastic," Julia said. "I know you have your needs too. I'm not going to have sex with you any more, but I don't at all mind giving you a handjob. In fact, you've only got to ask: any time you want me to sort you out just let me know. I can't say fairer than that, can I? But in return you have to promise not to maul me about or pressurise me to make love to you."

"Well," I said. "That's something I suppose. At least I won't die of frustration."

"I don't want you to be frustrated at all," said Julie. "But I have to do this for my own sanity."

"What about a blow job?" I asked.

She pulled a face:

"You know I've always hated that," she said. "You would too if you'd ever had a mouthful of spunk. No - I'm afraid it's got to be hands only."

What could I say? I still loved Julie, and I didn't want to leave her. It had been a long time since I'd hung out in clubs and pubs, I'd never enjoyed it much then and I really didn't want to go back to that life again. Besides, I couldn't be sure I'd find another woman - and if I did she would not be as loving and attractive as Julia.

So I turned to Julia and hugged her.

"We'll get by," I said. And: "Thank you."

And so began my new life: a very strange life, in which I never made love to my wife, and was never entirely satisfied sexually, but was never entirely frustrated either.

Julia was as good as her word, and never turned me down when I asked her to pleasure me. At first I was a bit reluctant to ask, for I felt like a beggar asking for alms, and I always prefaced a request with an apology:

"I'm sorry - but I'm really randy," I would say, looking at her like a dog looking hopefully for a biscuit. Then she would put down whatever she was doing, and I would take of my clothes and lie on the bed. She would sit beside me, and take a hold of my balls and my cock, never saying much beyond Is that alright? never hurrying me, working me up until I reached a writhing, back-arching orgasm, whereupon she would quietly leave the room and allow me to bask in solitude.

Then one day, about a month into the new regime, she said to me:

"There's no need to apologise. You're a man and you have needs, that's nothing to apologise for."

"OK then," I said: "please will you give me a handjob?"

"Yes," she said, and we went upstairs and once again she manhandled me into orgasm.

Many a time I gave thought to my new existence, and asked myself how happy I was. Was the glass half-full or half-empty? On the minus side I missed making love to Julia: I missed the smell and taste of her pussy; I missed the feel of her warm thighs closing around me; most of all I missed the sensation of having my erect dick inside her hot vagina, of moving around inside her, of emptying myself deep, deep inside her. Sometimes I missed this so much I almost cried in desperation.

But on the plus side I could now have an orgasm almost whenever I wanted. I did not have to wait for somebody else to be in the mood. I did not have to spend ages on foreplay. I did not have to suffer for days, sometimes as much as a fortnight, when Julia was experiencing pre-menstrual tension or having her period. And once I was stiff I could shoot my load at my leisure: I did not have to try to hold back worrying about coming too soon, worrying about whether my partner was ready.

All in all it was quite an interesting trade-off, and I often wondered how many men would swap their position for mine: though I never asked anybody, for I did not want my status to be known, as there was something humiliating about it and I did not want to be the object of mockery.

So life went on, and the handjobs simply became a routine part of existence. Sometimes Julia would see to me in the bedroom, sometimes in the shower, occasionally in the garden or the kitchen. (My favourite was the shower: Julia would never play with my arsehole, she had always found anything anal disgusting. So I liked it best when she reached one hand between my legs, and I could 'sit' onto her wrist, and gain just a little contact against her skin between my buttocks: this meant shooting my load into the air though, and since I could not shoot all over the carpets or the furniture, this method was confined to the bathroom or garden.)

By and large things were good between us, and Julia in particular was more relaxed and happier than I had ever known her. In bed we would still cuddle, for she liked being held, the only caveat being that I must not try to grope her. I could just about lay my hand on the upper part of her trimmed mound: but should I try to stray between her legs she would stop me crossly and wrench away telling me she was disappointed that I had broken my promise. I soon learned not to do this: but restraint was still difficult. For all that I was being taken care of, and having my balls milked as often as I needed, I still longed to make love to Julia, and the urge to do so sometimes beat up strongly in me when I was holding her, feeling the warmth of her lovely body pressed into mine.

Then came Christmas Eve: we'd been busy during the day, had had a lovely meal together along with a few drinks, and gone to bed early. I was holding her, feeling mellow and sentimental, and I thought I detected a softening in her: her body seemed to be conforming itself to mine in a more relaxed way than usual. As I said, we'd had a few drinks: and it was three days since I'd asked for a hand job. I began to caress her and murmur into her ear: she laughed, sleepily and, I though, sensuously.

"Please let me make love to you," I whispered. "I want you more than anything else in the world."

She didn't reply: and I because it was what I wanted so badly I took this for consent.

I licked my fingers and moistened her labia, and before she really knew what was happening I had rolled on top of her and entered her.

"Hey, what are you doing?" she said. But by then I was deep inside her: after so long I just could not help myself. Rather I smothered her mouth with my shoulder, slid my hands under her buttocks and pushed until my dick seemed to be sunk right into her womb. Then, with a long drawn-out groan of relief and pleasure I vented all my months of frustration in an ecstatic climax, my cock flexing again and again as I felt again the delicious warmth of her vagina around me and emptied myself deep inside her.

When I had squeezed out the last drops of sperm I sank my head onto the pillow, gasping for breath, lights flashing behind my eyes, eternally grateful. Gradually I let my weight sink onto Julie, loving the closeness, her breasts against my chest, my body against her body, just the way nature intended.

The next thing I was aware of was her sobbing. It started slowly, half-choked little sobs: then gradually built up until she was crying unrestrainedly. I tried to comfort her, but she held herself stiff and unresponsive. Reluctantly I rolled off her, and rested my hand on her shoulder. Gradually she cried herself out, then turned on her side and dabbed at her face with a tissue.

"Are you alright?" I asked, rather foolishly.

For a long time she didn't answer: in fact I thought she had fallen asleep and that I would have to wait until morning to try to make things better. But before she did turn over and go to sleep she spoke to me: a single sentence:

"Never, never, never again," she said.

Had I not been coasting on the afterglow of the most wonderful orgasm her words would have worried me. What did she mean? That I was never to have sex with her again? Well, I sort of knew that anyway, and what had happened tonight was by way of an unexpected bonus. Or did she mean - God forbid - that because of what I had just done there were to be no more handjobs? Despite the orgasm I fell into a somewhat troubled sleep that night.

On Christmas morning Julia was up early: I was vaguely aware of the shower before I went back to sleep, and when I finally woke up it took me a few minutes to remember what had happened the night before - it all seemed more like a dream now - and to realise there was likely to be some difficult conversation.

But Julia, perhaps because she did not want to spoil Christmas Day, came straight to the point:

"I don't know what got into you last night," she said. "But that is never going to happen again. I thought we had an agreement?"

"We did," I said.

"Then why did you go back on it?"

"I just got carried away," I said. "It was Christmas Eve - I wanted you."

"Did you stop to think about what I wanted at all?"

"I thought - I thought you might have relented."

"Well, I can't remember exactly how I behaved, but if that was the impression I gave then I'm sorry, because it was the wrong impression."

"I know that now," I said humbly.

"Well I'm not the person to go in for long recriminations," said Julia. "I could allow myself to feel very hurt at what you did: but what's done is done. You've had your way - I hope you enjoyed it (she said this with a degree of sarcasm) - though why you needed to when I've been emptying your balls for you whenever you've asked me, I don't really know. But it is never to happen again, do you understand? Whatever signals you think I'm giving off, or however drunk I might be: I am not going to have sex with you? Have you got that? And if you do ever do that again you can say goodbye to your handjobs."

"I've got it," I said, chastened. "I'm sorry."

"All right," she said. "Now let's drop it, I don't want to talk about it or think about it any more."

And so the subject was dropped, and whilst in some ways I had got off lightly I couldn't help feeling sad again. Partly because I had been reminded of what I had been missing - that incomparable feeling you get from being inside a beautiful woman. And partly because, for all that I had gone along with the handjob regime, I had had it at the back of my mind that it was only temporary, and that in the fullness of time Julia would come round to making love again.

Now I knew that was never going to happen.

Now I knew that, though I was a young man, with a strong libido, just thirty years old, I was never going to have the joy of being inside a woman again, unless I found somebody else or went to visit a prostitute, neither of which alternatives appealed to me.

So here I am, two years on, slumped on the side of the bath after receiving another handjob. Since that Christmas Eve I have never had sex with Julia, never smelt her or tasted her, never even felt the moist warmth of her vagina. But I have had my cock tugged and my balls fondled, hundreds of times in fact, so much so that, as I said earlier, it has become part of our domestic routine.

Hundreds of handjobs: and almost all of them initiated by me, though there have been a few exceptions. For example, although I have learned to control my urges when Julia and I are lying in bed together, there are still occasions, particularly when I catch sight of her undressing or dressing, when my longing for her beats up almost uncontrollably. The sight of her naked or nearly naked, sitting on the edge of the bed perhaps, her creamy thighs made all the more delectable by contrast with her pants or stockings, stirs such desire in me I cannot resist going up to her and hugging her.

"Please hold me," I'll say: and usually she will, and we will stand and hug, or she will sit and I will stand against her and hug her head and breasts against me: and within seconds I will have a burning erection, and a longing just to come between her breasts, or against her lovely warm thighs. But she's made it clear she doesn't like my mess over her body, and so to forestall any 'accidents' she will take the initiative, and tell me to lie down on the bed. It's a terrible wrench for me to relinquish the contact with her thighs or her chest: but I do as I'm told and lie on the bed, and soon her hands are manipulating me, warming my balls and stroking my cock, and I am shooting my load high and hard over my own body.

There is only one supplement to the handjobs that she will perform, and that is to shave me. She's very keen on hygiene, and so not at all reluctant to do this. We place a bin liner on the bed, then spread a bath towel over it. (The bath towel will soak up the water and the bin liner will prevent the sheets from getting wet.). She places a jug of warm water along with the shaving implements on the bedside table, wets my dick and balls with a flannel and massages soap into my pubic hair, then sets to work with the safety razor. Because she shaves me at least once a fortnight my hair is never too long, although it still tends to clog up the razor. Holding my balls tight she will draw the razor this way and that, sending waves of sensation through me. It never takes long before I am so hard I am begging her to leave the shaving and bring me to orgasm. Sometimes she obliges, and after shooting my load I am left with one half of my balls clean-shaven and the other half hairy.

Other times she insists I wait, and I struggle to hold on as she continues to manoeuvre my balls, drawing the razor downwards from the sides, stretching my scrotum and drawing the razor up from underneath near my arsehole. By the time she has finished I am all but creaming myself, but still I must wait whilst she wipes away the lather with a warm flannel, then dries me with a hand-towel. If I can wait the sensations are amazing: having your balls shaved is like removing a piece of clothing you never knew you were wearing: it also makes your whole genital area much more amenable to baby oil. So having finished, Julia will warm some baby oil in her hand, then apply it to my newly shaven balls and cock, gently massaging it in until I am in seventh heaven, shooting my load with such strength and relief that I end up with a trail of spunk stretching from my navel up to my forehead.

But though I have offered to return the favour, and shave her pubic hair for her, she has always declined, restating how much she dislikes being 'messed about with'.

So there we are. That is what life is like for me. Am I happy? I'm not sure. Things could be better. But they could also be worse: I could be alone again, as I was as a teenager, forced to play with my own balls and bring myself off, longing for the touch of a woman.

Is the glass half-full? Or half-empty?