I found the condom.
I should have suspected. Months ago, there was the little bottle of personal lubricant, tucked discreetly under the contents that jam the drawer in her bedside table. Certainly, it wasn’t there for me. When we do fuck, occasionally now, she is difficult to enter, so much so that penetration can be painful. Understandable at her age – at our age. And yet the lube has never made its way out of the drawer to enhance our lovemaking.
I told myself it was for her self-pleasure. How we men deceive ourselves.
Now the truth is there, so obvious, hiding in plain sight.
My chest is tight, my stomach in knots. My beautiful wife.
Over the years, as our life in and out of the bedroom had become more routine, I’d gradually lost interest. Objectively, I know how attractive she still is, how she’s kept her shape; her breasts still firm, ass pleasingly round, and no fat whatsoever. I should be ravaging her at every opportunity. Instead, I’ve built a second life, walled off, compartmentalized. Frequent masturbation. A penchant for porn. Even the occasional random fuck while on the road for business. Enough to keep me sane and my libido under some semblance of control.
Now it’s come back to haunt me. I realize the role I’ve played in this. Failing to satisfy her. A question tears at me. Is it failure to meet her emotional needs? Or her sexual desires? Is it just fucking, or is it love? I feel sick.
I close my eyes and try to imagine her, lying here on our marital bed, legs wrapped around her lover’s back while he claims her as his own. No longer mine.
How long? How many times? Just one man or a series?
My imagination races. I can see her face twisted in exquisite agony. I can hear her screams as she lets go and crashes on the rocks of her passion. I can feel her thrashing about, sheets tangled, fingernails digging into his back. Oh god, I can see her kissing him, deeply, passionately, hear her calling out his name, the condom – procured but ignored in the heat of passion – still in its wrapper
And suddenly, amid my torment, I see her in an entirely different light. Attractive, yes, but sexy. Sexual. An inner beast, slut even, one that I have been incapable of unleashing, impotent to fulfill. A torrent of emotions tears at me. Intense sadness. Jealousy. Rage. Guilt. Inadequacy.
And lust. I can see her now, naked, standing right here in our bedroom, the place where our children were conceived. Desire in her eyes as he takes her into his arms, his cock erect in response to her beauty. I see her drop to her knees and take him in her mouth, tentatively at first and then more confidently, aggressively, hungrily. I see her lay back on the bed, legs spread, ready for him. I imagine it’s that first time, when she willingly crosses the line. I hear the sharp intake of her breath as he slides into her. The point of no return. No doubt I am far from her mind as she takes the pleasure and fulfillment that she has so long deserved.
I suddenly realize that my cock is out, my hand gently stroking it. It is rock hard, far harder than it is when I’m with her. My breath is ragged as my imagination continues to run. Crazy with grief and desire I strip naked and lay on her side of the bed, right in the spot where he has asserted his ownership of her body, her mind, her soul. I roll over and bury my face in the duvet, inhaling deeply, aching for some sensory evidence of their coupling – his scent, her scent, their scent.
My cock presses into the linens, in the spot where her ass has pressed down with his weight on hers. It rages with an intensity that frightens me. I roll back over, precum spilling out onto my belly. I reach into the bedside table and take out the bottle, pouring out a generous portion onto my turgid member and begin to stroke, slowly at first, then building in intensity.
I imagine him crying out her name as he empties himself into her receptive womb, and her responding with something – did she say, love? I edge to the peak and fall over the other side, my cum shooting high in the air and landing on her pillow. Rope after rope, hitting my face, my chest, and finally pooling on my belly. I groan, cry, scream out her name as I empty myself completely, my orgasm so powerful it sends a searing pain through my midsection. My heart is beating a hundred times a second, my breath ragged. My head swims as I slowly, slowly, slowly come down from the peak and begin to regain equilibrium.
My beautiful wife, wonderful mother, everyone’s favorite friend, his whore, has given herself to another, and I am left to bring myself to beautiful agony, fueled by my imagination, torn between intense grief and joy for the woman I still love so, floored by the realization that she probably long ago ceased to be mine.
Now I must try to put the pieces back together. I lay on the bed for a long while, then rise and go to the bathroom. I soak a washcloth in warm water and wipe the dried cum and sticky lube from my body. I steal a glance at myself in the mirror. This will be my little secret, too.
I head back to the bedroom, tuck the bottle of lubricant back in its place, smooth the linens, fluff the pillows, pull on some clothes. I exit, closing the door most of the way behind me, and get on about my day.
