On the morning of her first DIC appointment, I ordered a ride and came along with my wife to the local Ministry of Women’s Health & Reproduction branch. We talked, just the two of us in there with the AC blowing and soft music playing, but I can’t remember anything we said because my mind was on another planet. When the car dropped us off, we walked hand-in-hand as far as I could continue, and I did the kiss-wife-awkwardly-see-you-soon routine at the red line before the entrance. Not routine for us, we'd never done this, but it was the script countless married couples had lived before us, and countless more would after us. I watched her enter and resigned myself to find coffee, if I could get it down, and occupy myself... but as I turned to go, a ministry nurse holding a touchscreen tablet hurriedly approached and asked me to follow her. And I did.
The nurse took me deep into the brutalist, expansive tower of a building, up an elevator, and through some halls with nothing in them but a stray cleaning bot on squeaky wheels. A few turns, and before long I was with that too-kind nurse in a dark observation room, peering from behind a one-way mirror.
It was a small viewport. On the opposite side, it was made up to look like an oval mirror hung on the wall. My wife’s space was made to look like a fully furnished, warm, ordinary, domestic bedroom, but with an awesome view of the skyline and mountains behind. And then I saw her enter. She was wearing a short bathrobe, the MWHR logo print on it. She approached the mirror to inspect herself, with none of the clothes, makeup, or jewelry she had left the house in. We were eye-to-eye in the one-way mirror, both looking at her face, but did she see the same face I saw?
She turned. Someone was entering her room. Three men filed in, all dressed handsomely in minimalist fashions. One was built like a swimming medalist, tall and wide-shouldered. The other like a gymnast, shorter and packed with muscle. The last was medium-height and skinny with long hair. They each took seats around the room, none touching the bed. And they… started talking? About what? She laughed, she blushed, she touched her hair. What was she giggling about? Was there something funny about any of this? Or was she masking her nerves?
The nurse watched me watching my wife, and seeing my mouth agape with wonder, she offered a word of context. “They’re breaking the ice, making small talk. Don’t worry. As you might know, they’re forbidden to exchange contact information or initiate a relationship beyond this singular DIC appointment. And even if she’s scheduled another DIC appointment, it’s against policy to pair her with anybody she’s been paired with before.”
“No relationships, no repeats, no regulars,” I mumbled to myself.
“That’s right. When she’s done here today, you’ll still be her only regular same-old relationship man,” the nurse said in a comforting tone.
I turned to see her smiling. “Thanks for the reassurance,” I said.
“Of course.” She gestured for me to turn and keep watching.
But I hesitated. I didn’t turn around and continue watching. “I’m… I don’t think I can see anymore. It’s too overwhelming. Can’t I just…”
She lectured me in the sweetest, softest whisper “…just put your head in the sand? Pretend it didn’t happen if you didn’t see it? A lot of husbands think that way and decide to avert their eyes, or even leave.”
“But I think I want to leave,” I said, almost begging.
The nurse smiled sympathetically. “That’s up to you. But before you go, remember that this is your only chance to see what happens here today. You can’t change your mind and come back or ask to see a recording. You’ll only be able to ask her, and if she’s willing to tell you anything, take her word for it. At least if you stay and watch, you will always know exactly what happened here today.”
I couldn’t turn my eye back to the viewport, but I couldn’t move my feet either. The nurse put her delicate finger to my chin and gently pressed, turning my gaze back on my wife in there with those three men.
The beefy, stout gymnast-type had taken a seat beside her on the foot of the bed while the other two kept a little distance and remained seated, watching and waiting like the rest of us. Gymnast was flexing his bicep at her and imploring her to feel. I thought, so this is how they cross the flesh-on-flesh threshold with her. This is how they initiate skin-to-skin. She blushed and poked his bicep with a fingertip, then attempted to get her hand over it. His arm was so thick she chuckled, trying to wrap her opposite hand from the other side, and struggled to make her fingers touch around the full circumference of that gorilla limb.
Gymnast pulled his tight shirt off over his head and flung it away at Long-hair. They exchanged playful smirks, and he began flexing pecs, forearms, serratus, and abs… guiding her hand on a tour of his marble-statue body. And… she wasn’t just humoring him. She was humored. Her hands weren’t limp and disengaged, but she articulated them. She dug her fingers into him, she raked them across his skin, and seized hold of muscle mass as it rolled and hardened under her palms.
She was liking this physique. Not liking, admiring. She’d never touched a man’s body like that. And my guts tightened. It washed over me, a strange sense of apology. Looking down at myself, moderately pudgy and with average-Joe musculature, my sense of apology was so acute it burned. Apology to who? To her, that I simply don’t offer that. I hadn’t tried!
And then he stood so that she was faced with his lower abdominals. She ran her nail through the vertical cleft and then made little circling laps around each mound in his eight-pack. She was transfixed by the definition, the shapes, the rock-hard yet fluid state his body existed in.
Without warning, Gymnast drove his thumbs under his waistband and dropped his shorts, sliding them to his knees. She reflexively turned her face away, her hair flicking across his lower half, and buried her hands down between her thighs, tucking and hiding them in her lap.
She put up this reticent front for longer than seemed polite. Gymnast was saying something to her, snickering and shrugging. Finally, she took a deep breath and returned to good form, bringing herself to turn back straight, face and look at his exposed privates, first side-eyed, then peeking through her fingers, but then directly.
She looked up at him, his genitals, and briefly explained something while gesturing with her hands. He nodded along, affirming whatever she was relating. Was she talking about me?! I had become so lost in the pathetic gap between his beefy body and mine, I’d forgotten about the other potential meat disparity. Most guys might flip out to see their wife have her wrist taken by another man to place her grip on his stick. But I was relieved that in her hand I could see the relative scale of his member, and we were practically even in that measure. If he was bigger than me, it couldn’t be by more than an imperceptible pinch. This felt like fate had mercy on me: penis parity. But my wife’s expression told another story. She was perfectly pleased with Gymnast’s bar.
A voice in my head reminded me that she had a dick bobbing in her face regardless. The system had pushed my boundaries baseline so far back! And while she was clearly happy with that size, mine and his, the good news was I’m not inadequate in the phallus facet, but the bad news was neither is he!
Gymnast was so erect that he had one of those rare pointing-straight-up boners, a G-spot-hooking angle, a rocket aimed at the Moon. Or not the Moon, but at her mouth, which had become round as the Moon. As her mouth parted into an O, as she looked down her nose a bit cross-eyed, Gymnast closed her hand more tightly around his shaft and prompted her to stroke. He put his hands on his hips, spread his feet, craned his neck back, closed his eyes, and let her work him.
At first, she was slow and tentative with this handjob, but then she eased into her task and gave him a natural pace and rhythm, one-handed and nonchalant, like nothing was off in the entire world. He brushed her hair out of her face and ran his fingers through her bangs, slicking them back over her temples. Gently, he thrust himself a bit forward, his ass muscles tightening and raising. He pulled her head in a centimeter closer, then another centimeter closer. Her lips pinched tighter, and she half-suppressed an insuppressible, growing smile, laughing with her stomach, her nostrils flaring.
He touched the tip of his dick to her sealed lips. Her eyes darted upward at his face and back to his nearing cock, to Swimmer and Long-hair sitting and watching casually like they’d seen it a hundred times, and then her eyes stopped and peered like lasers into the mirror, right at me. Did she know that I was watching? I thought: She must know someone is watching. Is she worried what someone watching will think, seeing what she’s about to do next?
Her mouth came open, not half an inch and blocking his immediate entry, her pink tongue poked out to meet his dick hole.
