Some marriages get stronger as the years go on.
Mine wasn't one of them.
It's not that I didn't love my wife, but she has her personality and rough edges, and I've got mine. Over the years, instead of wearing each other smooth to mesh better, they left each of us with raw spots. So, here we were with our separate careers, living in separate bedrooms in an upscale two-story in the classy part of town. I suppose we could have gotten divorced, but that would have required more effort than either of us wanted to put in.
Which is not an excuse for my behavior ... but I'm getting ahead of myself.
My wife took a bad fall at her office, and when the doctors finished dealing with her she was looking at three months of recovery at home including physical therapy. I wasn't in a position to take off from my job to tend to her, and I wouldn't have been able to handle the therapy tasks anyway, so we called a medical service and arranged for a full-time nurse.
Her name was Martha, and she was almost a complete opposite to my wife. Where my wife was tall, Martha was only five-foot-two. Janet was a demure redhead, but Martha was a flashy blonde. Janet came from Boston and sounded it; Martha was apparently from somewhere in the South. Janet's wardrobe ran to business suits; Martha showed up in a set of nurse's whites featuring a skirt that dared both gravity and common sense yet didn't quite show anything over her white stockings.
Still, the younger nurse managed to handle her larger patient with cool efficiency, handling the washing chores since my wife couldn't use the shower, helping her in and out of bed, preparing meals for her. I was more and more impressed by what I saw of her.
One evening, after my wife had been put up to bed, Martha joined me in the study for a drink. I knew little about her other than her Southern origin and that she took her job very seriously. As I sipped my Wild Turkey and she held her bourbon and soda, she asked me out of the blue, "Kevin, just how long is it since you and Janet had sex?"
When I finished sputtering and had applied a napkin to the whiskey spots, I managed to put together a polite reply. "Why do you ask?"
"Well," she continued, "outside of her recent injury she's in good physical shape -- her legs are good, or will be after they finish healing. Her figure's certainly good, not many women have D-cups at her age without major stretch or sag marks. She could stand to lose a few pounds, but who couldn't. But I've been posted in a lot of married couple's homes, and she must have the most ... interesting collection of vibrators and dildos that I've seen in years. I can only assume that for some reason the two of you aren't intimate, and haven't been for a while."
My mouth fell open, half from the offhand way in which this stranger was discussing my wife's body and intimate habits and half from the way she crossed her legs, which for the first time gave me more than the briefest glimpse of the tops of her white stockings.
I was embarrassed that for the last year and a half I hadn't given any thought to what Janet did for sex since she wasn't interested in me any more. The pictures that came to my mind now of my wife playing a vibrator over her breasts or shoving a dildo in and out of her vagina combined to make me both horny and uncomfortable around Martha. Her provocative posture didn't help. I stuttered something about different careers and different schedules, but there was a look in her eyes that said she knew better than that. "Of course," she said dismissively, and sipped thoughtfully at her glass.
A few moments passed without comment from either of us, and then she broke the silence with "So, is it you?"
I shook my head in disbelief. "I beg your pardon -- is what me?"
"Are you the reason she doesn't have sex with you any more? I know that she's physically up to it..."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, much less the nerve of this girl. "Now look here, Martha, I think you're way out of line here! I'm perfectly..." I was going to say something more, but she chose that moment to uncross and recross her legs. The transition made it apparent that she wasn't wearing panties under her skirt. She took my moment of confusion to get up, pluck my drink from my nerveless hand, and put both of our glasses on the sidebar. When she returned, she patted my legs together and sat down astride them, facing me.
"Look, Mr. Spencer," she began, then clucked her tongue and reached forward to unbutton my collar button. "Or maybe Kevin would be better, don't you think? I'm in charge of getting your wife back into full health, and in case you've decided to join the Catholic Church, that includes sexually. Now the way I see it, I have two choices. I can get you to fill me in on what's going on here, or I can get your wife to tell me."
She leaned forward, and the front of her uniform shifted fluidly against her curves. Her scent was cinnamon and vanilla, and she whispered into my ear: "We get very close in physical therapy, Kevin ... she won't keep any secrets from me!"
With that, she hopped up lightly from my lap and headed for the study doorway. "Well, you think about it and let me know who I need to talk to. I think I'm going to call it a night. Pleasant dreams!" She gave what had to be a deliberate wiggle of her bottom as she sauntered out and upstairs.
I poured another couple of shots of Wild Turkey and tossed them down fast and straight. It didn't help. My mind was still awash with images of my wife, naked on the bed, breasts sweaty and bouncing as she pumped a thick dildo in and out of her red-fringed pussy. I could almost smell her musk on my lips again, even after three years. But the aroma in my nose wasn't her musk. It was cinnamon and vanilla, and the face on the woman in my vision wasn't Janet's, it was Martha's.
I left the study, brushed my teeth, and masturbated to a fast, furious and unsatisfying orgasm before going to bed. I'm not sure what my dreams were, but I didn't wake up refreshed.
The next night I had to work late and didn't get home until after dinner. When I got home, my dinner was waiting on the table, and Martha was there stirring her iced tea. "How's Janet?" I asked. Martha stared lazily at me, still stirring her glass as she responded. "Oh, we had a very difficult day; lots of hard work, poor Janet was quite exhausted by dinner time. Poor thing, she was so out of it I had to undress her for bath and bed." I grunted, trying to set aside the picture of small Martha man-handling my wife's body (or more likely woman-handling) as I chewed my food.
"So," she continued after a pause, "have you thought about last night?" I stopped chewing and looked at her suspiciously, but she maintained the same bland expression as she continued, "about telling me why you and Janet aren't fucking any more?"
That stopped me in my tracks. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to wash her mouth out with soap. I had a pulsing erection and wanted to bury it in her mouth. My face must have been an open book to her, because she started to laugh, not a high giggle like one associates with blondes, but a low masculine chuckle. "Poor Kevin," she smiled, "he's so horny he can't think straight ... did I upset you with my language? Would you rather I ask about you and your wife being intimate? But I watched her with that big dildo this morning, and she wasn't being intimate, she was seriously fucking herself."
Somewhere in this lewd recital I swallowed the last of my food, but I still couldn't figure out how to respond. All I could do was shake my head in a negative expression. That didn't stop her. "It's true, you know -- you don't want to hear it from me but you knew Janet couldn't go completely without sex for that long, didn't you?" She got up from her seat and walked around the table to me, her words burning their way into my ears. She stood behind me, her strong fingers massaging my shoulders and her voice oozing like honey. "Would you like to see the evidence, Kevin? Do you want to see how your wife has been amusing herself while you've been down the hall?
I didn't know whether I was angry at Martha or at Janet, I just suddenly wanted this whole bizarre episode to be over. "Yes," I blurted out, "You'll have to show me, because Janet would never be ... would never do that."
Martha laughed abruptly, a harsh barking sound in the stillness of the dining room. "You don't think ... well why don't you come upstairs and see for yourself then? She turned and headed for the staircase, and I followed her perforce. We kept bumping into each other all the way up the stairs, and I started to hush her when we reached the landing so that we didn't wake Janet. She brushed me off sharply. "You couldn't get her up with a cattle prod; now quit being such an idiot."
.... There is more of this story ...