I stared up at the ambulance roof, watching blue light ripple across its surface—reflections from outside. Sometimes a siren’s sharp wail pierced my ears. Someone was holding my hand. Everything felt distant, unreal. I couldn’t grasp why. Later, the roof gave way to harsh overhead lights. I sensed motion—being wheeled through corridors, the trolley rattling over the floor I couldn’t see. Then a room: dim, hushed, shadowed. Silence. Then nothing.
Three days vanished.
I woke in a hospital ward. My hand was warm and grasped. When my eyes fluttered open, I saw fingers laced with mine, a familiar wedding ring glinting faintly in the light. Gradually, I began to regain strength. Louise was always there, sustaining and comforting. Time blurred. I slept through days and nights that no longer had meaning. But she remained, a constant presence.
Eventually, I managed to sit up, sip water, and nibble at crackers and fruit. It was on one of those quiet afternoons that the doctor came. She was in her mid-thirties, composed, with kind eyes. She drew the curtains around my bed, pulled up a chair, and sat beside me. Her expression was serious.
“Hello, Bob. I’m Doctor McPhail, your registrar. I’d like to talk to you about the results we’ve received. Can you tell me what you’ve understood about your condition so far?” I stared at her, unable to speak. I just shook my head, overwhelmed.
She continued gently, explaining that I had a life-altering condition. I would live—but not as I had before. The words blurred, but one sentence landed with brutal clarity: my sex life was over.
Louise and I had been together over thirty years—partners, lovers, and companions in every sense. She had always been the one to reach out first, her desire open and joyful. That part of our life, intimate and sustaining, had been taken from us.
._.
The NHS kept me alive; the benefits system kept us afloat. My working life was over. Almost every day, I’d read some headline about feckless scroungers bleeding the state dry—but for us, it was a lifeline.
Most days, I managed to avoid dwelling on my celibate situation, but at times frustration rampaged through my brain, willing my dormant penis to stir, to allow me some sensual pleasure. Louise pandered to me, offering comfort, but there was no escaping my life of torment. We muddled through. Louise adapted to her new, sexless existence. At bedtime, she’d curl up with her tablet, reading in silence while I nestled against her, grateful for the warmth.
One evening, I glanced up.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
She didn’t look away. “It’s an adult site. LushStories.”
Curiosity tugged at me. “Can I have a look?”
She handed me the tablet without hesitation. I started reading—and was instantly hooked. An erotic tale of swinging couples, written with surprising tenderness.
“Does it turn you on, Beenie?” I asked, half-teasing.
“Yes, Love.”
I slipped my hand down her stomach, through her pubes and into the warmth between her thighs. She was wet. My fingers explored and found the hardness of her arousal. I shifted against Beenie's warmth, her tablet light glowing softly across her lap. My fingers traced the curve of her hip beneath her pyjamas—slow, deliberate—feeling her as I slipped past the elastic waistband. Cotton gave way to damp curls, then I found her clit already hard beneath my touch.
"Beenie," I murmured against her neck, inhaling her familiar aroma. Her body shuddered sharply as my thumb circled the swollen bud. "Darling, do yourself. Come for me." The tablet slipped, forgotten, onto the duvet as her thighs tightened around my wrist.
She whimpered as her hips lifted off the mattress. Her hand slammed down over mine, pressing my fingers deeper as she ground against me. "Oh, God! Yes."
The words fractured as her back bowed; sheets were grasped and twisted in her free fist. I felt her fingers clench around mine, wetness slicking my knuckles as her desperate moans climbed higher. Her legs locked like a vice around my wrist, heels dug into my leg as tremors ripped through her.
"Fuck, fuck." The curse tore from her throat as she convulsed against me. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and for a second she went utterly still—breath held—before collapsing back. Sweat glistened at her temples as she stared at the ceiling, chest heaving.
"Beenie, do it again."
Her breath caught as my command hung unanswered. Her thighs were trembling around my wrist—still slick with her—but she shook her head, a ragged exhale escaping her lips. "Can't... too much," she rasped.
Her clit pulsed beneath my finger, oversensitive and flushed. When I traced a featherlight circle over her swollen bud, she flinched violently and exhaled a choked "Ah!"
Her hand scrambled to cover mine, not guiding, but trying to shield. "Please... no," she whispered hoarsely. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady bursts.
I ignored her pleading, pressing deep into her wet folds. My voice sounded alien, something that was outside my control: “You will cum again.” With every stroke of my digit across her tiny bud, her body flexed in a maelstrom of ecstasy accompanied by a stream of whimpers, verbal submission to my touch.
“Please, love, no, I can’t take it. Please stop. Please stop.” My ears were closed against her; a raging desire that had no physical outlet coursed through my brain. I watched as her protests dwindled, then vanished—swallowed by a low, unbroken moan. Her body arched sharply, trunk lifting from the sheets until nearly vertical, then buckling as her hips surged upward. For a breathless instant, she hung suspended between shoulders and heels, a taut bow of flesh and tension—until the spell broke. She collapsed onto the bed, arms flailing, body writhing in a storm of aftershocks.
It was an orgasm, the likes of which I had never witnessed before. I was in awe of it while listening to the sobs wracking her frame, as my Beenie gasped for life-giving air.
She turned her face away, muffling a sigh. The aftershocks still rippled through her frame. My fingers retreated slowly, tracing a wet path across her trembling thigh before resting on her hipbone. I watched silently while she dragged the back of her hand across her eyes.
Louise curled onto her side, facing away from me, knees drawn tight to her tummy. Her forgotten tablet had fallen on the floor, casting a soft blue glow on the ceiling. For some unfathomable reason, I touched my soft foreskin and slipped a finger inside the folds that hid my glans. I was wet, very wet, and there was no rage of frustration in my head—I was at peace with the world. Satisfying my wife had destroyed the beast within.
._.
A page had turned. We found ourselves returning to LushStories frequently, reading aloud between us. She gravitated toward tales of swingers, while I discovered something else—cuckold stories that stirred something deeper. Watching her climax again and again—sometimes with her touch, sometimes guided by mine—quelled the restless hunger inside me.
One evening, as we lay curled together in the afterglow, I gently suggested we find a partner for her—someone who could offer her the fullness of experience, the kind of satisfaction I sensed she craved. She didn’t recoil. In fact, she seemed intrigued, later reading my favourite cuckold stories aloud, her voice low and charged, as if testing my new desire.
Then, quite unexpectedly, I received a private message from another member—Stan. We began to chat. He seemed sympathetic to our journey, curious but respectful. After a while, I asked him the question that had been quietly forming in my mind: would he enjoy making love to Louise? The words felt momentous. If he said yes, I would become a true cuckold—not just in fantasy, but in life.
._.
Sitting together on our sofa, our hands entwined, we await Stan’s coming. Everything that has passed since my ambulance journey has come to this point.
A ping breaks the hush. I glance at my phone—one new message.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
She leans in, arms around me, and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.
“I’ll go up to wait.”
I watch her go. Her hips sway in those deep blue slacks, the faint imprint of her knickers pressed into the fabric. She’s chosen well: the slacks hug her curves, and the white cashmere top softens the look. My sexy wife, dressed for another man.
I move quietly, setting the room for their rendezvous. The centre lights go off; only the standard lamp glows in the corner. I fluff the cushions, cue up a chilled internet radio station, and let soft music fill the space.
Then I take my place in the armchair, just beside the sofa. My mouth is dry. My nerves are taut. I sip water from a tumbler, trying to settle myself. No whisky tonight—or ever. My condition has stolen that small comfort too.
The minutes crawl by, each second stretching longer than the last. Then—a sharp rap on the door knocker snaps me out of my thoughts.
My legs feel encased in lead as I shuffle from the sitting room into the hall. At the door, my hand hovers, frozen at the latch. Time slows. I watch, detached, as it finally moves and turns the knob.
“Hi, Bob.”
His voice is flat. I see it now—he’s just as tense as I am.
“Good day, Stan. Welcome. Come in.”
It sounds absurdly normal, like he’s just popped round for a cuppa. He steps inside. I close the door behind him. He glances around, uncertain.
“She’s upstairs, Stan. In the bedroom. Waiting for you.”
He nods, then climbs the stairs. At the landing, he pauses. Then he’s gone, around the corner. I hear his voice: “Hello Louise, it’s Stan.”
I return to the sitting room and sink into the armchair. My mind races. Is she touching him? Is he fondling her? Was I mad to suggest this?
The creak of the stairs breaks into my thoughts just before the door swings open. Louise enters first, with Stan close behind. They step into the centre of the room and pause, facing me.
Louise wears only a white bra and knickers—new, pristine, chosen with care. Stan is in boxer shorts. My mind churns. This is the moment that I give my wife permission to be unfaithful. I nod gently.
They turn toward each other, side-on to me. Louise wraps her arms around Stan’s neck, tilts her head back—a silent invitation. He leans in, lips meeting hers.
I watch their mouths move, tongues flickering, and cheeks hollowing and swelling in rhythm. There’s no sound, just the roar in my head. I’m gripped by rage, yet frozen—glued to the armchair by something unnatural.
Stan’s hands slide across her back. With one swift motion, her bra strap parts. Louise steps back, lifting her arms so he can ease the garment down. It falls to the floor.
Her breasts are bare now, her nipples stiff and proud.
They kiss again, slow and hungry, before his hand slides beneath the waistband of her knickers. I can’t see, but I know exactly where he’s gone. She loops her arms around his waist, drawing him closer with a soft moan. Then I hear her whisper, breathless and urgent: “Don’t stop. I’m on fire.”
Her hips are flexing; I know the sign, she is aroused. More whispers; I miss the first words but hear her demand, “Harder, Stan, crush it.” Suddenly her body shudders violently, and I watch her claw at him for support as her orgasm hits.
I did not understand how awful it would be for me, my mind riven by jealousy, watching my beloved Beenie enjoying an orgasm, fingered by another man. But worse was to come.
They strip off their remaining underwear, and more whispered words follow while Louise holds his stiff cock, gently working up and down the shaft. I hear something said about submitting, then “Bob wants it.”
She turns around and kneels, then lays her body on the sofa and opens her legs. Being taken from behind, doggy style is her favourite position. Stan kneels behind her and shuffles forward, pushing her legs wider and wider.
Then the fateful words, “Stan, just do it.” He fiddles around for a moment, then pushes. “Deeper, I want to feel it.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes, thinking, 'What have I done?'
He drives into her harder and faster, and I have to listen to her continuous moans of ecstasy, my eyes fixed on the whites of her knuckles, her fingers crushing the edges of the cushions.
Her moans change into slurred swearing, a succession of 'fucks'. Something familiar, echoes of our past. She always did the same just before she came when I fucked her. Watching her orgasm on Stan’s cock is another low point, but worse still is her begging him not to stop. But the absolute pit was hearing the words from her mouth, “Yours, I’m yours.”
A loud crack brings me around; our old sofa has collapsed under the harsh pounding Stan is giving my wife, while she demands he fill her. Seconds later I am watching him pump his seed into her. I am an emotional wreck, wondering if I’ve lost her to a cuckoo in our nest.
The only sound is Stan’s ragged breathing, still catching from his exertion. Louise lies still, then turns her head toward me, her smile soft and satisfied.
“Made a mess,” she murmurs. I watch her feel between her legs, draw her hand out, examine it carefully and extend it towards me. My fingers lock with hers, a mix of her juices and his cum wet and slimy against my skin.
“I love you,” she murmurs quietly. My heart leaps, and the fog in my brain clears instantly. It’s all right; she is still mine.
“I love you, Beenie.”
Our fingers remain entwined, and pride surges through me—bright, uncontainable. I feel honoured by the gift of sharing her, by the surrender of what once felt solely mine. Something has shifted. We’ve crossed a threshold, and nothing will ever be the same.
._.
I look down at the wood blocks wedged beneath the sofa’s broken leg—temporary, uneven, but holding. They’ll do for now, I think, though the thought of replacing it feels absurd when every pound we earn is already spoken for, twice over.
Just two days ago, Louise was stretched across those cushions, her body slack with pleasure. The image won’t leave me: Stan kneeling between her legs, breathless, drained. It replays in my mind constantly.
I lower myself onto one end of the sofa and run my hand over the faint stains—traces of where our fingers had met, held, lingered. Yesterday was my hospital day, the usual routine. When I got home, Stan was gone. Louise was humming to herself, light and content, moving through the room as if nothing had shifted at all.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice her until she settles quietly at the other end of the sofa. Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing mine, then curling around them—resting together over the faded stain.
Her voice is low, almost trembling. “Bob, I need to talk to you.”
I look up, heart tightening with dread. The fear of losing her, of having misread everything, grips me.
“Yesterday morning,” she begins, “I was masturbating in the kitchen. Stan saw me, and then he took me. I’m sorry. I broke our agreement.”
The only words that come are blunt. “Did you enjoy it?”
She nods, eyes downcast. “Yes. Being wanted like that—it’s powerful. And I did enjoy it. But afterwards, when he left, I felt guilty. Both for the pleasure and betraying your trust. I’m so sorry.”
She looks so small, so miserable. All I want is for her to feel safe again.
“Come here,” I whisper. “Let’s cuddle; just hold each other.”
Louise lays her head in my lap, and I stroke her hair, then trace the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw.
“I set this in motion,” I say quietly. “The fault is mine. But I don’t regret it. I want you to feel alive in your body, to be wanted. That joy—it echoes in me too. When you and Stan finished, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time. Peace.”
She murmurs, barely audible, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say, steady now. “We’ll do it again. We’ve crossed the line, and we’ve learnt. I love you, Beenie. And I want to be strong—for you.”
Louise breathes softly against my lap, her weight a comfort. I stroke her hair absently, but my thoughts drift elsewhere—into longing.
I hadn’t expected it to feel like this. I thought I’d be stronger. I thought I’d be proud. And I am. But pride is a thin protection against the ache that’s settled in my head.
She was happy after Stan. I told myself that was enough, and her joy could be mine too. But now, with her curled against me, apologising, I feel my worries more clearly.
It’s the knowledge that I can’t be everything she needs. That someone else could touch a part of her I can’t reach anymore. And I let it happen. I wanted it to happen—for her and for us.
But there’s a cost. It sits beneath the surface, like an illness. I lean down and kiss the top of her head. “We’re okay,” I whisper, unsure if I’m reassuring her or myself. “We’re learning.”
She nods, eyes closed, and I keep stroking her hair, letting the silence stretch between us.
