Fisting Tony's drowsy prick, Judy felt the fierce heat of her hungry pussy, the fat swelling of her cunt lips, and a steady trickle of juice from her aching twat. She wondered why Tom didn't ball her much any more. When they were first married, they couldn't keep their hands off each other. They'd fuck before Tom left for work, when he got home, and again when they went to bed. Now she was lucky if she got laid once a week. Something was seriously wrong with their marriage!

"Jesus Christ, will you look at that guy go!" Tom yelled excitedly.

Judy turned her head and squinted at the TV screen. Some guy was racing for a touchdown, but he got tackled on the ten-yard line. She turned away with a yawn. She failed to see what was so thrilling about a bunch of overweight jocks running into each other and hurling a ball around. She and Tom could have been having a lot more fun in the bedroom, if only he'd realize it.

"Shit," Tom muttered, "I thought he was going to score."

Judy wished Tom would try to score with her. But he only took a long pull at his beer and remained glued to the boob tube. She pumped his silky warm cock a little faster. No go. Damnit, what did it take to arouse this guy, a brass band? Maybe so. When the half time activities came on, Tom started tapping his foot to the music.

It made his cock waggle when he moved like that, and the limp flesh slipped from Judy's busily pumping fist. It was bad enough being a Football Widow, but now, judging from the squawk coming from the TV, she was playing second fiddle to a deodorant commercial. Enough was enough. She intended to confront this problem head, on.

"Tom," she said, looking up from his lap, "what's wrong with us? How come you don't want to make love to me any more?"