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."
Upon entering my wife's bedroom, I was immediately struck by the overwhelming pungent smell of sex. Janet had kicked off the covers and was lying sprawled atop the bed, her body sweaty and one hand tucked between her thighs. She had definitely put on weight since the accident, but still made an erotic sight nude. A cock-shaped vibrator was lying between her outspread legs, showing the moist signs of recent use. I stood there in shock, taking the scene in, while Martha's hand started sliding along my bottom, dipping occasionally between my legs. "Look at her, Kevin, she's a healthy middle-aged woman and her body's screaming for sex, just not for yours." Martha's voice was soft but penetrating, and she continued relentlessly stoking the fire building inside me. "It makes you hard looking at her, doesn't it? I know it must, it makes me get all hot and wet and want to finger myself to a good hot cum. Go ahead, Kevin, take out that cock of yours, make yourself hard for your wife."
I was squirming and grinding my hips, and wanted nothing more than to show my superiority over that fake phallus on the bed. I quickly unfastened my belt and unzipped my pants, shoving them down along with my briefs. My cock, released, snapped up against my stomach, and Martha's hand slid between my legs to stroke my balls, urging me forward until my legs were pressed against the bed. "Go ahead," she whispered, "she's lying there for you Kevin, you don't have to jack off into the toilet tonight, give it to her right now, give your wife all that hot, thick cum!"
It all made a weird kind of sense, not that I was really thinking coherently. All I knew was this: there was my wife asleep having gotten herself off, and here was I with swollen needy balls, Martha's fingers playing with my bottom and her voice cooing in the background. I started stroking my cock, not even bothering to spit for lubrication, feeling the lust wash over me. My breath came in pants and my vision was blurred, and it seemed only moments until my balls clenched and my legs went taut. Too soon, Janet would have said had she been awake, but she wasn't and I was coming hard and fast, sending thick sticky white streamers from her legs up her wide belly to her full breasts. "Yeahhhh," hissed Martha, her tongue dancing against my ear, "that's right, spray your cum all over her big fat tits, look how she loves it even in her sleep!"
And that was obviously true. Janet was half-stirring, her eyes still closed, but her fingers had begun slowly stroking her slit. I had half a thought that I should get out before she woke up, but I was still in the middle of cumming. My last spurts trailed from the side of her right breast over her right arm. Panting, my heart pounding, I surveyed my wife in this new light, watching her cum-splattered body shift from side to side as she frigged herself in her sleep.
A sudden burst of self-loathing finally pulled me from my daze -- what was I doing, taking advantage of my sleeping wife by jerking off on her? I spun around, and promptly tripped over the briefs which were still around my ankles. When I managed to get dressed and up off the floor, Martha was standing in my place beside the bed, rubbing my cum into Janet's breasts and crooning into her ear. I gaped as Janet's hand sped up between her legs, her hips rose six inches into the air, and her whole body stiffened and shook for a space of three or four seconds. Then she collapsed onto the bed, completely limp.
Martha stood up, absently sucking on one wet finger, and looked at me with an attitude of surprise. "What, are you still here? Go to bed, Kevin, the show's over." She waved a dismissive hand in my direction and turned back toward Janet's bed. The look she gave my wife just then was oddly proprietary, but I was too awash in a combination of shame, anger, and post-orgasm lassitude to examine the moment. I left the room, half-running to the safety of my own bed. "Tomorrow," I thought before falling into a dreamless stupor, "Tomorrow I've got to put a stop to this!"
The next morning was Friday, and I sent the office an email that I'd be in late. That let me stay home long enough to join Janet for breakfast. It was a quiet affair; my wife was yawning and Martha, who I was beginning to think of as "that woman", was quietly professional. You'd never know she had been rubbing my sperm into her patient's breasts only last night. When Martha finally left the table to go upstairs and prepare for the morning physical therapy session, I had my opportunity. I broached my concerns to Janet, of course not mentioning the activities of the previous evening, but putting my emphasis on the nurse's insolence and unprofessional appearance and demeanor.
You would have thought I had proposed selling a baby. Janet went into a frantic tizzy, the thrust of which was that Martha was the only friend and human contact that she had, and we couldn't possibly find an adequate replacement for her. I sat there in shock, trying to reconcile this needy, clinging woman at the table with the self-sufficient, forceful businesswoman I had married. Was being cooped up in her enforced convalescence having this profound an effect on her, or had she been sliding off the edge through the months and years of our estrangement with me none the wiser?
About that time I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the nurse entered the dining room with a strongly disapproving look. "Please, Mr. Spencer, poor Janet really mustn't be given any more stress today, she has a lot of work to do with her therapy." I thought I saw a quickly-suppressed shudder cross my wife's face at that comment, but I had gone through some painful physical therapy back in my high school days and attributed the look to dread of the hard work ahead. I finished my breakfast, kissed my wife on the cheek while Martha stood nearby with crossed arms, and headed out for work.
One thing was sure; my idea of getting that nurse out of our house was a dead issue.
I knocked off work Friday promptly at five, and got home in plenty of time for dinner. I looked at my wife with a much more critical eye now, picking up on details that must have escaped my notice before. She looked tired; there were lines under her eyes and she seemed not quite there. Shortly after dinner, she announced that she was tired and headed upstairs to bed. I gave her a hug which she barely acknowledged, and when she went upstairs I headed to the study.
I waited there, somehow knowing that Martha would be back. I thought back on the previous evening, squirming in the recollection of how my own lusts had allowed me to treat my sleeping wife as a sex toy with the nurse egging me on. There would be no repeat of that shameful scene, and I struggled to put those lewd images out of my mind.
Sure enough, the nurse walked in uninvited and unannounced, walking right by my chair without so much as a good evening, and pouring herself a bourbon and soda. I waited until she turned to face me, and then commented that I thought Janet looked worn down, and perhaps Martha was pushing her too hard.
The younger woman's eyes flashed, steel blue piercing the air aimed at me. "Too hard?" she challenged, "What do you think physical therapy is, a play session? Your wife needs a lot of work to make sure those bones knit properly and she gets her strength back. You should try going through her daily workout and then see what you look like at dinner time. She'd better be working hard!"
Her tone of voice changed, shifting from righteous indignation to sly innuendo without a break. "Or would you rather have her weak and needy, like she is now? You seemed to like her that way last night..." She set her drink down and sashayed up to me, her self-assurance preceding her like a powerful force. "Is that it, Kevin, you want to go upstairs and jack off on your wife again?" All those images which I'd been suppressing at the office came back to me full force, along with a painfully stiff erection. She looked pointedly at my crotch as she continued, "Yeah, I can see where your mind is. Tell me, Kevin, did you get off knowing that Janet couldn't stop you from cumming all over her? What was the biggest turn-on, jacking off on your wife's big fat tits or seeing her cunt all puffy and sloppy wet? Did you dream about me cleaning all that cum off your wife's naked body and wish it was you?"
I should have objected to her language -- hell, I should have walked out before this whole obscene conversation got started. Any such thoughts, though, fractured and vanished when Martha started unbuttoning her blouse right in front of my face. She wore no bra -- a fact previously concealed by the stiff white uniform material. While her breasts weren't in the same cup range as my wife's, she had more than a handful and they bounced with emphasis as she spoke. "Or maybe you really got hot about pulling your cock out with another woman in front of your wife?" The nurse leaned forward lewdly and swiveled her shoulders left and right, batting her breasts against my face and surrounding me with her perfume. "Is your cock hard for Janet or for me now, Kevin? Do you even know the difference?"
I didn't know -- more to the point, I was so far gone I didn't care. If this woman had turned around and told me to kiss her ass I would have buried my tongue inside her like a shot. I was on the edge of coming in my pants, just from the way her voice and words slithered their way into my ear and crawled down my chest, teased my stomach, and settled like hot oil into my groin.
Martha stood back, and I almost fell forward trying to follow her breasts. She regarded me with some amusement, commenting, "Well, I guess we answered half of that question. Tell you what, Kevin, you think I'm overworking your wife, let's just find out tomorrow." I sat on the chair in hyper-aroused frustration, trying to follow the direction of her conversation. "If you can outlast Janet in the same therapy regimen she gets in the morning, well, I'll help you get your rocks off like you've never done in your life. You'll think you've died and gone to heaven, or maybe that heaven is cumming to you. Otherwise..." and at this she held a finger to one corner of her red lips and looked up at the ceiling as if making a decision, a stance which only emphasized the proud upthrust of her breasts. "Otherwise, I'll give dear Janet an extra-special treat for all her hard work -- and you, my horny friend, will just have to sit there and watch us!"
All of this sounded just great to me; which shows just how far around the bend I was. Some piece of reality made its way through my lust-fogged brain, though, and I tried to pin it down. "But Janet, she would never..." Just like the previous night, Martha cut me off, only this time with lilting amusement. "Oh, but of course she would, you silly boy. Have you forgotten your little conversation with her this morning? I'm your wife's best friend -- she'll do anything as long as I'm there with her!" And before I could give any thought to the implications of that remark, she bent over, extended one well-manicured hand, and cupped my balls while rolling her thumb across the base of my cockshaft. That was the last straw for my overheated body, and I felt my face turn hot with embarrassment as my cock spewed and I came stickily and thoroughly in my pants.
The bare-breasted nurse smiled at her handiwork, then turned to leave the study. As she did so, she tossed a parting comment over her shoulder. "Sleep well, Kevin, you and Janet are going to have a real workout in the morning!"
Saturday morning dawned overcast. Inside the house, I came to breakfast in tee shirt, socks and sneakers, gym shorts, and a jock strap it had taken me over an hour to find. There was nobody there to greet me; a note in the nurse's neat handwriting said that Janet had taken a light breakfast in her bedroom. I shrugged and went to fix myself an egg and toast. And coffee, of course. Then I went to brush my teeth and headed upstairs to the salon outside Janet's bedroom. The full trappings of a workout room had been set up there – treadmill, rowing machines, floor mats, medicine ball, stationary bike, weights, and things that I didn't particularly recognize.