Silent Treatment: The 25th Day

Silent Treatment: the 25th day.

CATEGORY: non-erotic

DESCRIPTION: Trudy Denies Her Words to Her (Merry) Husband

### Copyright © 2023. This is a copyrighted work. Unauthorized use is prohibited--all rights reserved by the author.

My contribution to the Literotica 25th Anniversary Challenge.

Non-erotic tale, yet sexuality is central to the plot. You will only find little sexual activity in Chapter 2. If you are only looking for graphic descriptions to jerk off quickly, switch to another tale.

Any references to real-world things or people (or memes) are entirely coincidental.

English is not my native language please forgive my mistakes. ###

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- - - - - - - Prologue. Two Memes

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25th day. Today, it has been 25 days since my wife Trudy imposed the Silent Treatment on me (again).

She understood it as torture: a severe punishment.

Poor deluded girl.

As the notorious Meme reads: a woman, all proud, thinks "I will ignore him all day, so he knows I'm mad" but she does not know that he minds his own business, thinking "What a nice quiet day... the best day of my life". Dear wives of the world: he already knows that you are "mad", not in the sense of "mad with rage" (like the King in "Hamilton"), but just devoid of rationality (crazy). And he enjoys that silence, not as torture, but as a prize gift!

And again on another Meme. The wife: "Communication is the KEY." The husband: "What's wrong?". The wife: "Nothing. Good night." Somehow I think the whole mankind needs a Law: each and any woman acting this way (with the two sentences one after the other) must be committed to a mental hospital and deprived of property and the right to vote. It is not reasonable to announce that communication is important, and then rely on a hypothetical telepathy that average women do not possess.

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- - - - - - - Chapter 1: Trudy & Manfred Forever.

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Adding together the years of engagement and marriage, we have been together for just over 22 years. I had hoped to make it to the golden wedding anniversary, but after what happened, we won't even make it to the silver wedding.

Yet the tattoo I got for her, above the skin of my heart, reads: "Trudy & Manfred Forever".

For over twenty years I did everything to please her, receiving blackmail, denials, and nagging in return.

She never took the sexual initiative. I always had to be the one to initiate, at first it seemed to me a symptom of seriousness and purity. I thought, "You're lucky, Manny: Trudy isn't one of those insatiable sluts who grab her boyfriend's cock like it's a subway handle."

But the shyness, which might have seemed commendable to me when she was just an 18-year-old girlfriend, became slothful laziness when she was a legally married wife.

We were still very young when she became pregnant. We got married soon after she declared it to me! I dropped out of university and took the first job I could find, then another job to earn more paychecks for her.

In the beginning, it was like the realization of a dream for me. Maybe my wife was not beautiful, but she was all mine! And to me, she was the whole world. As an old country song says, she had shown me a side of me I always knew: dedication.

Yeah, dear reader, it was true: before I knew it, I was holding all the doors, holding her hand, gettin' off of work just as fast as I could. I was always calling her up: she would send me messages with things to buy, and I would pay, I always paid for everything. I was always calling her up, asking what she was doing: she never asked me how I was doing, and I thought it was because she was aware that I was infinitely happy to be working for her.

And, dear reader, before I knew it, I was spending all my time, spending my whole paycheck all around her.

I had always known it, even as a child: I would spoil my wife, unlike my father who had abandoned my mother.

And maybe that was it.

Perhaps, without too much reasoning, it was as simple as that.

But, I gotta say, this whole "love thing", I always thought I'd exactly do like this: but that's before I knew the whole plot.

First, our first daughter was born, then our second: I won't say we only fucked twice, but almost.

By the way, doing the math, I didn't remember us making love nine months before the first baby was born: but she kept telling me she was born in the seventh month.

Strange, because everyone told me that the newborn was big and chubby for a septuagenarian.

And she didn't look like me at all: I have dark brown, almost black eyes, whereas my daughter has light blue eyes, like an ex-boyfriend of my wife. But she always told me she hadn't seen him in ages, so the newborn was my daughter. Naturally.

A few months after my daughter's birth, my wife's sister (Stacy) organized her bachelor party. None of the girls present remember anything about what happened that crazy night. Maybe they had drunk too much, or maybe someone had put some sleeping pills in the glasses. But a few weeks later, my wife announced that we were expecting our second child, and revealed the gender: a boy! I had always wanted a son, to throw a baseball and name him Manfred Junior. I was the happiest person in the world: I was 19, and now I am 41.

Doing the math, I remembered that in the previous months, she had always refused to have sex with me, with the most banal of excuses repeated by comedians in stand-up monologues and in tv series: headache, too hot, too cold, too sleepy, "I have yet to read a chapter in this long novel about Werewolves".

Not only that: but those few times we had sex, Trudy had demanded that I lick her and arouse her with very long foreplay, as if she was not sufficiently aroused. Humiliating and depressive. And we rarely went so far as vaginal penetration... three-quarters of the time, Trudy would orgasm while I sucked her pussy or nipples, then fall asleep, and she would tell me to masturbate in the restroom so as not to bother her with the noize.

I had become very good at foreplay, also because Trudy would force me to devote whole hours to licking her pussy or tits. I am not exaggerating: whole hours, timed with a stopwatch.

So, I don't know how it happened that I got her pregnant. Maybe I had a drop of sperm on my finger as I slipped it between her inner labia? I'm not sure if a drop on a finger is enough, without the jet propulsion of an effective ejaculation. By the way, I don't want to brag, but sometimes when I masturbate I throw spurts at a distance of three or four feet.

When my son, Manfred Junior, was born, I was allowed into the delivery room. I personally saw his head coming out of my wife's womb, I saw his hair as black as mine under the blond tuft of my wife's pussy. For a moment I thought he really was my son because the hair color was the same. Then the head came out, and it was dark chocolate. I was there, I saw it with my own eyes. It wasn't the nurses who switched the babies in the cot.

But I didn't care. I wanted a son and I never asked for a DNA test. My wife Trudy told everyone, friends and family, that one of her ancestors was of Egyptian descent, which is counterintuitive because she is naturally blonde with eyes as blue as the sky (you know: "Blonde hair, blue eyes, out of the blue", I think it's a quotation from Shakespeare).

I married her when she was already pregnant with my daughter. Then we hardly ever had sex: I would ask, beg, and plead, but she was never in the right mood.

I begged two, or three times a day, with gifts, promises, and kindnesses, and she always rejected me. First the excuse of being pregnant, then she was always tired because of the baby, then the other pregnancy, then the drudgery of bringing up two children... I hoped that when they got older, she would have some time to have sex with me.

Instead, the more time passed, the more she spent minding her own business. She would read long sagas of soft-erotic novels, watch entire seasons of TV shows without bed scenes, in short, anything rather than allow me to have sex.

I had meanwhile become a world-renowned expert. There was no area of pornography that I had neglected, masturbating like a monkey, wachting porn video, gathering porn captioned pictures, and reading hundreds of thousands of tales on Literotica site. In fact: alone, I masturbated more frequently than a whole herd of monkeys.

To convince her to have sex with me over the years, I had tried everything. I would work all day, then come home and do all the household chores: filling the washing machine, then the dryer, ironing, preparing dinner, setting the table, filling the dishwasher, playing with the children, helping them with their homework, putting them to bed, resisting their protests while she read novels on the sofa, heedless. I tried to do all the things that could induce her to have sex with me, who after all was her husband.

On weekends I would wash the floors, wax the floors, and tend the garden so that she would find a sweet and tidy environment that would entice her to have sex. Result: zero.

To alleviate the strain of raising our two children, I went to talk to the teachers at school, knew all the mothers and their gossip, and helped my children with all their homework, hoping that my wife, moved by my dedication, would allow me to have sex with her at least once a month, or at least once every two months. Instead, nothing.

Oh, well. Occasionally, in a totally unpredictable way, she would say yes. But even on those rare occasions, it was a total disappointment. She had her own obsessions. In the dark, because she didn't want to be watched. But shit, I'm YOUR Husband! Nothing. Zero strip tease, zero lingerie, zero heels: in defiance of all the books on seduction that suggest (correctly) that males are visual animals, that they get aroused mainly by "seeing" the woman. Nothing: zero. I once asked, "Can I choose music?" no, zero music, and zero moaning: she had sex while gritting her teeth, as if not to be heard by anyone, including fairies, gnomes, and ghosts (and her beloved Werewolves, I guessed).

If you multiply Zero lingerie by Zero music, of course, you do the math: Zero strip tease comes. The thing I wanted most in the world, and she wouldn't do it to me.

I bought a car to impress her: zero.

I bought another even bigger car: zero (as in my favorite song: "OK, so you've got a car? That doesn't impress me much).

I gave up graduating because she was pregnant with my first daughter, and started working right away, saving even on lunch to accumulate money for her. Zero.

I bought a house to live in before the baby was born. I took on a huge debt with the bank, which would choke me for 20 years, which would prevent me from sleeping peacefully: zero. Even the day we inaugurated the house with the keys, I was convinced it would get me laid, instead: zero. The first house was not up to her real-estate ambitions. I contracted another debt with another bank, and bought an even bigger house in a better neighbourhood for her: but I got no sex, zero.

Meanwhile, she was constantly degrading me, comparing me to her sister's husband: Brad. He was a real athlete: bodybuilder, but also a free climber, swimmer, and expert in paragliding and parachute jumps.

I was just a normal office worker with a potbelly: I worked overtime every night to earn money for her and then spent all my free time helping the children with their homework. Instead this fabulous brother-in-law of mine, Brad! He was always off doing his extreme sports and was never with his children. But as usual, my wife only saw a detail that was useful for nagging me and did not perceive the full picture.

Trudy always threw in my face that my brother-in-law, Brad, was brave and had lots of tattoos that defined him as a real hero. I have a phobia of needles and can't stand pain on the epidermis, but with a good dose of sleep pills, and painkillers, to show my devotion to her, on the skin of my chest at heart height I had had a mammoth tattooed with the words "Trudy & Mandy Forever", the letters were in black between the reddish fur of the prehistoric animal. Zero. I had deluded myself that she too would get a tattoo to honour our love for each other. But after years of holding it against me that only my brother-in-law Brad was a Real Man, an Alpha male because he was athletic and tattooed when it was her turn to get a tattoo, she said the pain scared her and ran away. Thus, I suffered to get a tattoo for her, while she ran away instead of getting a tattoo for me. There must be a word in the dictionary to describe people like that, but I can't think of it now.

A few years later, my brother-in-law Brad had a bad accident, going down in a hang-glider: a sudden whirlwind blew him against the rocks and smashed his spine. Since then he has been immobilized in a wheelchair. In the hospital, weeping helplessly, my sister-in-law Stacy lamented that he had been completely impotent ever since: 100% erectile dysfunction, a doctor had written with mathematical coldness and merciless precision. The girls were also in tears, those from the company secretary's office. Some mature rich ladies were also crying desperately: I did not know them, but some explained to me that they were well-known clients of the company where he worked.

Oh, thank heavens! It is always heartwarming to see how much emotion an upright worker arouses in women with whom he has only serious working relationships without any sexual involvement. And it is a source of great hope for the future of mankind to see all those women weeping over an anatomical deficiency that, logically speaking, would only have harmed my sister-in-law, but not them too, I guessed.

Power of Sisterhood, even among women who are not related! What generous and altruistic women, so strong and empowered, and yet so tender and delicate!

Dear reader, you might think that since then my wife has stopped belittling me by comparing my fatigue with my brother-in-law's tireless sporting activity. After all, now Brad was paralyzed and powerless (and impotent). But no: my wife compared me, now that I was over forty, to what Brad was when he was young! Which is doubly unfair, because I am now grey-haired and short of breath, and it is not fair to compare me to a boy of twenty!

When my two sons grew up and went to live on their own, my wife decided that she wanted a pedigree dog, which was expensive and complicated to handle: a golden retriever (which is known to eat more than a teenager). For the first two days, she played with the dog, from the third day onwards, every task was placed on me, while she read on the couch without a care

One child, two children.

One car, two cars

One house, two houses.

One dog, two dogs. My wife decided that the dog was sad because he was lonely: so she expected me to buy another purebred dog. Money, time, effort: I was willing to go to any lengths to put her in the right mood - and yet, she wouldn't even let me have sex when I bought her the second dog: Retriever, chocolate brown.

I did everything to please her. We used to watch only women's films, always with a feminist slant (on other films she would veto them, like censorship in a dictatorial regime: perhaps film censorship is the main symptom of tyranny?). We used to go to the theatre to see musicals: one day a ticket-taker said to me, 'Hello, Manny, you know that tonight there are only groups of women in the theatre, lesbian couples, single gays, and you are the only heterosexual male in the whole theatre? Apart from myself, I'm here because they pay me a salary, and besides, it's not like I watch Musicals..." I replied, "But no, what are you saying, Tom, those two gentlemen over there, in the purple and pink jacket, next to the jasmine tea, holding hands, are also heterosexual..."

We had theatre subscriptions together. Opera and Ballet. Stuff that would have driven even Freddie Mercury to exasperation.

Meanwhile, there were a lot of memes circulating on the internet about the concept of 'SIMP', which I didn't fully understand. I masturbated furiously, in a blind rage.

Reading a story on the 'Literotica' website, one line triggered a doubt in my mind: perhaps by masturbating I was taking something away from my wife? Blinded by my devotion, I confessed to her that I masturbated three, or four times a day. I hoped that this confession would lead me to greater intimacy. I hoped she would say, "My poor love, if you feel so lonely, maybe I could help you out!"

Instead, Trudy shrugged her shoulders and said "Yes, I know, I've always known, that all males masturbate all the time. You all suck. Go ahead, just don't try to annoy me with your unwanted demands."

I remained motionless for ten minutes.

Dear reader: why? Do you know why girls get married (not all, of course!)? For social status and to earn a handyman who gives them all their wages. Like Mowgli, who first carries into the Man-Village the heavy water-filled pot of his future wife who lures him. Ever since the 1967 animated film, 'The Jungle Book', everyone knew that girls simply want a porter: how many times have you seen in shopping malls, her running here and there shopping, and an idiot in the back holding her packages? This is also a big mistake from a logistical point of view: if she had to carry the weight of all the shoes, bags, and clothes she has already bought, she would not have the energy to flutter from one boutique to another to buy more useless crap. But all husbands make this mistake, each hoping to be rewarded with a little sex as alms. The more resigned ones wait sitting on benches, holding the purchases they have already bought.

And do you know why guys get married (not all of them, eh!)? Because everyone deludes himself that if he were married, he would have sex with his wife every day. Whereas instead, the concrete reality confronts us all with the infamous so-called "The Girlfriend's Law", stating that "every wife, after marriage, will do with her husband less than one-tenth of the sexual activity she did before marriage [lawyer's brocade and math quibbles: "it this may sound strange, yet it is true]". Before getting the Ring, she wanted to convince him (persuade, coax) to make The Big Mistake and for that reason, she feigned some interest in Sex with him. Instead, after the wedding, her selfishness triggers laziness. The word "wife" triggers less grooming, shorter hair, confidence, farting, and less sexual activity: it is inevitable. If every groom-to-be knew what questions to ask and could get honest answers from his father, grandfather, and uncles... every groom-to-be would know that this is the case for all couples (or almost).

Don't believe me! Ask the internet. Old joke, since 50s, old but gold

### At 7:30 pm after work, a man brings a buddy home for dinner... unannounced. His wife begins screaming at him, while his friend just sits and listens. Wife: "My hair and makeup are not done, the house is a mess, the dishes are not done, I'm still in my pajamas and I can't be bothered with cooking tonight! Why the hell did you bring him home?!?" Husband: "Because he's thinking of getting married! And I promised him a demo!" ###

Dear reader. You can delude yourself that this is just a joke and that it won't happen to you (the only one lucky among thousands of millions). But be warned: ignoring statistics is a form of fallacy.

Dear reader: the marriage bed. Do you know why the marriage bed is built for two people together? To delude every male into thinking that his wife will have sex with him every night, and sleeping on the same mattress will trigger Love every minute of the night, with every trivial touch of her toe, or with every simple caress from her hand. Newlywed houses have a double bed to delude the groom so that he will get sex every night, all night long (and also rooms in hotels, to delude you that the price you pay is worth the expense). The reality is another, and you will find it written everywhere, proclaimed everywhere: every woman will use the double bed as if it were hers alone, taking up 4/5 of the space, stealing sheets and blankets, and threatening to send her husband to sleep on the couch for any whimsical whim (and this is nothing new: if you calmly re-read the comic strips of the 1950s, you will find the same perennial and eternal patterns). Telling the Truth, every husband should sue his wife for cheating: she promised me love and sex, and instead acts like she's my sister (and not in the sense Literotica readers would like), mixing laziness, neglect, nagging, scolding, neglect, farting, and spite.